Who Dares More
by 90TheGeneral09
Summary: Continuing from "Where Many Were", LT Cameron Ward VC of the Royal Marines returns to Britain as part of the NATO expeditionary force retaking the mainland UK. When the infection begins again in London's District One, Ward has to make hard choices to enforce containment of the virus- and in the process learns what being a British soldier really means.
1. Chapter 1- Prologue- Love & War

**Chapter I- Prologue- Love & War**

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**"I dare do all that may become a man; who dares more is none."**

**-Macbeth**

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"He's not going to like it."

"He's a soldier. He'll do what he's told, won't he?"

"You know what I mean. He's been in the public eye ever since he got out of Manchester. The only friend he had there's taken his discharge and headed off to bloody Tibet. Wants to find peace and tranquility, he says. After what he went through I can't blame him, but it changes nothing. We've still got a job to do."

"Exactly. We've no shortage of dead heroes. Living ones are not common. Britain needs a living hero right now, and this lad's the best we've got. He's not like any of the others. He's unique. Not just in terms of what he's accomplished, but what he represents."

"Which is?"

"That Britain can survive, against all and any odds. That England prevails. He went through every bit of hell the infected could throw at him, and even when for all he knew he could've been the last Royal Marine on Earth, he still acted like one. People notice that sort of thing. It means something."

"So this is why you're sending him into Cumbria."

"Yes."

"He's going to face an enemy with guns, you know. He hasn't done that yet."

"Oh, bollocks. Combat is combat. You think he won't know what to do? He was at Luton, and they had more than guns there that day. At Manchester he held off an infected human wave on his own. And the other soldiers we picked up at Manchester say that they apparently missed him in retreating from the blockade. You know where they found him when they came back for equipment? On top of a Bedford lorry with at least a hundred dead infected around it. Said he'd been there three days. He'll do fine. More importantly, people will listen to him."

"These people in Cumbria don't know anything about what he did. They aren't even convinced the outside world still exists."

"We haven't anything to worry about. He'll do what he's good at, and odds are, within a day people will love him. And he hates traitors and deserters- you'll recall 45 Commando did some 'cleanup' work with those types while also covering the Army's retreat. He won't lack for motivation. No, I daresay we'll have some more news to put out on him when this thing is over."

"So what's this all about, then? Getting some more medals on our VC boy's chest?"

"It's about giving the British people their country back. Think about that."


	2. Chapter 2- Capture of Muncaster Castle

**Chapter II- The Capture of Muncaster Castle**

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12 June, 2002. It was 0200 hours, and 2 men were already dead. They were formerly British Army; soldiers of the 52nd Infantry Brigade who had deserted along with the rest of the unit during the outbreak, and now had reorganized themselves as petty despots over roughly the northwestern half of the county of Cumbria. Foolishly basing themselves out of Muncaster Castle, itself only a single mile from the coastal town of Ravenglass, the men under 'General' Markley had made the assumption that the Royal Navy, wherever it might have gone, was never coming back. Their carelessness had already cost many of them their lives; led by a team of 24 Royal Marines, a group of US and Canadian special forces were invading the town of Ravenglass and retaking Muncaster Castle. The self-proclaimed dictator of the 52nd had made his headquarters there, and NATO leadership believed that if he was publicly displayed as captured, the stalemate that had so far been the Cambria Conflict could be brought to an end. Markley's men were clever enough in their use of hostage-taking and booby-traps that a decisive battle proved elusive, and British forces had concerns regarding collateral damage and manpower. American proposals of a head-on amphibious assault on Ravenglass and nearby Muncaster Castle were rejected for that very reason. The use of gunships and tanks would not be subtle, and British forces, determined to take the lead in this first assault, did not have the men to spare.

So it had come down to 45 Commando, ridiculously understrength with just one troop of 24 men moving into the area, having swum up the river and moved swiftly and silently into position around the castle. Most of the men were green, post-infection recruits who had been hand-picked following their completion of the relocated Commando Course in Australia. Every one of them had been personally interviewed by Lieutenant Ward beforehand, and in due time deemed suitable for the mission. Even so, Ward had remained skeptical of their ability. Selection just wasn't the same as it'd been at Dartmoor.

By this point, though, just one hour into the mission, Ward's doubts were already vanishing. These men- an interesting term, in a way, to call a group of Marines mostly no older than himself- were rapidly proving themselves. They'd moved ashore from the Navy sub- 45 Command had specified they didn't want even the slightest hint to occupied Ravenglass that the Royal Navy was anywhere near- with that silent, effortless ease that Ward already knew well.

The fast but stealthy overland march, with the all-too-constant need to drop and crawl to avoid being seen on such frequently-open ground, they had done well also. Between the veteran sergeant, Barber, who had been retrieved from assignment in Afghanistan to deploy with 45 Commando, and Ward as the OC, the otherwise lime-green recruits had calmness and professionalism to spare. All through the infiltration stage, Ward watched them as he led them, and all through their first hour and a half ashore the new men had done their duty. When a patrol driving a stolen Army Wolf- recognizable though retrofitted against infected attacks in a variety of strange, mish-mashed ways- spotted the last of the 24-man team crossing a road, the men had stayed completely calm.

The last two men, Moreland and Chase, had simply dropped to the ground, nearly invisible in the darkness even beside the road. When the two men driving the Wolf had gotten out and stood there like idiots, looking over the Marines' heads into the dark, Chase and Moreland had simply crawled up close enough to grab them by the legs. Doing so, they had then clamped a hand over each 52nd' man's mouth to muffle their cries of surprise and fear, then with one quick jerk of the hand had broken their necks.

The Wolf was driven down to the riverbank, out of sight, and its fuel lines severed. The Marines didn't need it, and they couldn't risk anyone else using it. The bodies of the two deserters- Ward noted with real disgust they were still wearing the trousers from their combat uniforms- were unceremoniously dumped in the back of the Wolf. The Marines had vanished into the night again after that, cutting through it towards Muncaster Castle like a blade.

By 0230 hours two groups of 12 Royal Marines had encircled the castle, lying prone in a variety of positions on the mostly-clear ground around it. The grass had not been attended to much at all, but the odd lack of rainfall in most of England since the infection had meant it was no higher than a foot or two. It was high enough to hide his Commandos, but not so tall that they couldn't see through it easily. Ward checked his watch again, taking a minor risk and hitting the backlight button. It was 0234; in six minutes exactly, Sergeant Barber's men would be killing the floodlights surrounding the castle.

He'd taken the group's snipers with him, each armed with one of Accuracy International's finest. The rest carried an assortment of silenced weapons- MP5's, L85's, even an American M4 SOCOM. Ward was unimpressed with the weapon, but if one of his men felt it a good weapon of choice, he'd let them give it a try. He still carried the L85 he'd used since before Manchester. He felt so at home with it by now he rarely used anything else.

0240- without even a sound from the open ground around Muncaster Castle, a handful of bullets blew the light-bulbs on the castle's floodlights, plunging the entire area into darkness. Shouts of surprise and dismay came from the perimeter guards, some on the ground and some on the roof- useful information there, Ward noted, but hardly a surprise- but strangely, they didn't seem convinced they were under attack. Not yet, at least.

They weren't given long to think about it, though; just as one of them, a former Sergeant in the 52nd, was starting to wonder why in the hell every one of the perimeter lights had blown a bulb at the same instant, a second volley of shots was fired. This one, involving every Marine who could find a target at all, killed every one of the rooftop and ground guards. As Ward's team of Marines rushed the Castle in the dark, Sergeant Barber signaled with a series of hand motions, sending his men into action once more- they redeployed around the castle, watching both ends of the front drive leading up to the castle. If 'General' Markley had any help coming, it wouldn't get far.

A cowardly but arrogant man, Markley had for years gotten away with relying on more competent subordinates to do the work for him, even before the infection. Having convinced nearly an entire brigade to desert with him as a mere captain, he'd simply knocked himself up a bit in rank, in accordance with the growing area of control he'd been enjoying since the infection. He now owned nearly half of the county of Cumbria- Markley, for one, did not care one bit what some of his town sheriffs and magistrates said about seeing oddly-uniformed men on the outskirts of towns and villages under their charge.

Nor did it interest him when a skirmish near Carlisle Castle- which had, much to Markley's annoyance, been held firmly by the opposition thus far- was driven back much more fiercely than usual. So the peasants were getting some backbone. What did it matter? Markley had close to 500 men solidly under his charge, and they had guns. Lots of them. He even had a few of his men who'd been mechanics in the Army working on getting a couple of Challengers running again. No, even if a few SAS-leftovers were trying to back the other side up, they wouldn't last long.

Markley had gone to bed that night in his master bedroom at Muncaster Castle, thoroughly unconcerned. It would have alarmed him a great deal had he known more than half of his guards were already dead, and that as he turned over in his four-poster bed, a young lieutenant of the Royal Marines was moving silently past his sergeant of the guard, slumped dead over a sandbag-emplaced machine gun. That would have troubled him a great deal, but Markley heard not a sound, and when he awoke briefly and only by chance, he assumed the floodlights were off because the generator had failed. It happened all the time, usually because one of his idiot men had forgotten to 'requisition' enough petrol from one of the locals. The idea amused Markley- in fact, it sent him back to sleep with a smile, making a mental note to have his patrols step up their demands for fuel. He knew the civilians in the Southwestern half of Cumbria didn't have much of it left to give- the fun was in beating them up when they claimed that. Or really didn't.

It was these things, and not any sense of urgency or alarm, that 'General' Andrew Markley had on his mind when a pair of strong young hands- more than one- shot out of the dark. Instantly awake- he ignored much outside the castle at night, but inside he paid attention to every sound- Markley instinctively grabbed for his pistol, under his pillow at all times. He found his hands bound as if by iron. He struggled fiercely but couldn't move. His eyes, probing wildly for his attackers, expected to see the rough and unkempt faces of some mutinous group of ex-Army thugs appear out of the darkness. Perhaps his own men- those lousy bastards- staging a coup.

Instead, he saw soldiers.

Each of them with the same clean-shaven, camo-painted faces, all of them geared exactly the same. Then, in the moonlight, he saw something on the arm of the one looming over him. Hardly older than a boy compared to Markley, he wore an expression of grim satisfaction, and a flash reading ROYAL MARINE COMMANDO on his left arm.

Now Markley felt real fear, and struggled harder than ever. He'd heard the stories during the 28 days that destroyed Britain- who hadn't?- about cold-blooded Marine killers, 'mopping up' Army and police deserters alike whenever they found them, operating behind the lines almost every day as they slowed the infected following the Army's withdrawal towards Manchester. With news cut off and society as it had been gone for good, men like Markley had returned like the feudal lords of old, offering protection in exchange for tribute. It was a time-tested and proven system, and it had allowed Markley and his men to ride out the infection with relative ease. Once the large mobs and swarms had passed north, Markley had assumed those young killers in the Marines and UKSF were all dead, or mad.

Apparently not.

A hand had been clamped over his mouth, too, so Markley's attempts to speak did nothing but elicit a few smiles from the young soldiers. The one in charge- though an experienced soldier, Markley could hardly bear to look at those brilliant blue, hawk-like eyes- leaned down briefly, smiling in a way Markley really did not like. "It's a good thing they told us to take you alive. Dealing with traitors… well, you could say it's a specialty of ours." He grinned wider, looking around at his men. They? Who was _they_? Who could have sent these men here?

Oh, God. The Navy really had survived. Some government, of some kind, was still out there.

This was not good.

Markley had little time to think anything more on this, though, because the Marine in charge raised the stock of his rifle high, blotting out the moonlight briefly, and with judiciously calculated force brought it down on Markley's head. The world went black.

Ward motioned to his men. "Come on, let's get this bag of shit out of here."

In less than ten minutes, the twenty-four Commandos had vanished into the dark again, leaving the bodies of more than double their number in Army deserters behind them. A patrol would find them the next morning, and the absence of General Markley, combined with so many dead bodies, would be met with considerable panic. Ravenglass, however, was much the opposite- when a platoon of U.S. Army Rangers landed the following morning, their first and most pressing task suddenly became keeping the villagers from brutally murdering 'General' Markley.

He'd been found by the town postman, an older fellow with precious little to do since the infection. Markley was trussed up like a Christmas turkey, tied to a lamp post in the town square. It had taken some fast thinking on the part of the Rangers' platoon commander to save Markley from being shown firsthand how much his 'subjects' really liked him. Once the villagers had calmed down, though, and an extraction helicopter called, the Ranger lieutenant looked around, mystified. He'd been told that British Marines were going to go in and capture Markley, then meet the Rangers in town. Markley had been found tied to a lamp post, it would later be found at the nearby castle that every one of his best guards were inexplicably dead. But the Commandos were nowhere in sight.

Praised highly for their work in Ravenglass, the men of 1 Troop, Company B, 45 Commando had quickly been sent elsewhere in the contested English county. Working in the shadows alongside a handful of American Green Berets, Rangers, and Canadian Special Forces, the Commandos found their services needed more often than they could be made available. The loss of Markley was only the beginning for the deserters of the 52nd Infantry; their rule over Cumbria collapsed inside of two weeks. After a last-ditch offensive with a pair of Challenger tanks and some Wolf trucks had failed miserably, the surviving men had given up. When Markley's successor had ordered his men to hand over their weapons, he'd told the Ranger battalion commander, "You'd never have beaten us if you hadn't had those damned devils in those green berets." It had come as a surprise to the American lieutenant colonel when he learned the 52nd commander had meant the British ones.


	3. Chapter 3- 42 Days Later

**Chapter III- 42 Days Later**

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It had been 6 weeks, some 42 days since the outbreak of the infection in England and the ultimate fall of Great Britain. The infected were dead; contact with survivor communities, recon sweeps from the air, and searches on the ground by special forces personnel all confirmed that the last of the infected were gone. They never thought to eat, the infected, or even to drink; it was a wonder they could stay on their feet for as long as some of them did. It wasn't even known if they slept, though rumor had it they didn't do that either.

What mattered was that the infected were gone, and just a month and a half after the outbreak, 42 days later, whatever remnants of the British military and UKSF could be mustered were being sent into the British homeland. Their orders were to search, secure, and sanitize.

Well over three-quarters of the pre-outbreak UK population was dead now; either killed by infected, infected themselves and then killed or now starved to death… or killed by people. Humans, amidst the chaos of the infection and the total pandemonium that soon overtook everyone in their desperate attempts to escape, had fought and killed one another for a space on that last train, ship or airliner with the infected just feet behind them. Humans had even gone right back to killing one another as soon as the infected were no longer the clear and present threat; the Cumbria Conflict was a perfect example.

Cameron Ward had reacted to all this quite calmly, almost with a grim sense of amusement; he didn't expect much else now. He'd seen what true fear, a primal instinct for self-preservation and survival, could make so-called 'civilised' people do to each other. Major Henry West's words echoed in Cameron's mind when these facts became evident, as more and more evidence of what exactly had happened in Britain during the infection became known. People killing people indeed.

If 'devastated' was the closest appropriate word for what the infection had done to the civilian populace of Britain, 'destroyed' or 'shattered' was the best word to describe what the Rage virus had done to the military. Thinking quickly and acting with almost blinding speed, the Admiralty had scattered every seaworthy ship and submarine out to sea. The Royal Air Force had come out the second luckiest; many units deemed 'strategically invalid' were converted into infantry regiments and invariably never heard from again once the city they were in was overrun, but the pilots themselves and the overwhelming majority of aircraft, helicopters and support personnel were evacuated in time. The Marines had lost over half their strength, the UK Special Forces a little over a quarter. The Army's story was worse; shattered platoons were all that remained of once-proud regiments; sometimes a few squads remained to represent a division. The Army had lost everything.

But when the talks began some 18 weeks later of reoccupying the British homeland, the UK's surviving leadership were in agreement on one thing- British soldiers must lead the effort to land again on British soil. Her Majesty's Armed Forces might indeed be so badly depleted that their numbers in the expeditionary force could never compare to what the Americans, Germans, French and Canadians were sending. But in the arguments and tense discussions, in the plans and ideas and countless contingencies, Britain's leadership agreed that British soldiers had to return and be seen doing so. It wasn't about were their numbers going to make much of an impact.

It was about showing the people the best of Britain's surviving numbers were still out there fighting the good fight. The people needed hope, and the Prime Minister and Queen knew better than anyone that the duties of their respective offices demand that the people be given that hope.

And so it was, then, that 42 days later Lieutenant Sir Cameron Ward- knighted by the Queen herself in Belfast after 45 Commando's victorious return from the Cumbria Conflict- led his troop into the city of Dover, to begin the process of establishing a foothold for the expeditionary force, and eventually southern England's District Two.

Cameron was riding in a French helicopter, landing as part of a force that was mostly Americans, and participating in the retaking of land that was unmistakably British. Over the noise of the Puma's rotors, Sergeant Barber leaned over and half-yelled "What's funny, sir?"

D Troop's commander, leaned up against one side of the Puma's troop bay in full combat gear, started- he hadn't even realised his amusement had shown. It was ironic, really- the bloody Frogs and the colonists sending more men to retake Britain than the British. He mentioned as much to Barber, having to raise his voice to the same half-shout to be heard.

Barber laughed. "Yes, that's it, sir," he said, grinning under his camouflaged helmet. "I'd say it's about damned _time_ the both of them paid us back for all the times we've bailed their arses out of trouble."

"Bloody right," Cameron said. "Let's just hope the Yanks only take _fifty_ years shutting up about it instead of five hundred."

"Because the Frenchies _never_ will, right?"

Cameron nodded. "Exactly."

Oblivious to the conversation going on between their troop leader and sergeant, the 22 other Marines of D Troop waited patiently for the helicopter to land and the operation to begin; it was a day of great excitement for all of them. It would be the second time most of them returned to mainland British soil since the infection; for some of the newest lads it would be the first.

The air assault portion leading the landing force swept in low over the empty, debris-strewn city; through porthole in the side of the Puma, Cameron could see a horrible-looking traffic jam at an intersection. There was death down there; a lot of it. Dover had been one of the central sea-based evacuation points early in the infection, and countless Royal and French Air Force helicopters made shuttle runs across the Channel to the Continent during the time they still could safely land. So many hundreds- or perhaps even thousands- had gotten safely away… but many, many more hadn't been so lucky.

It was a sobering thought, but nowhere near as frightening as another. As the pilot announced over the Commandos' radios that he was bringing them in to land- in passable English, even- Cameron shoved one particular thought away, locking it far off in his mind. He was deeply afraid, to the point of almost wordless terror, of the possibility that he might find Sam here. There was a possibility- however unlikely- that Cameron's parents hadn't made it to Dover in time to pick Sam up from the Duke of York's during the outbreak. What if they'd had to flee to Ireland without him, leaving Sam on his own? What if he and some of the other boys there, faced with little hope of rescue in a city fast being overrun by the infected, had made the choice they knew their older brothers, uncles, and fathers were making- to stand and fight, and be damned to the cost?

The cost. Cameron Ward knew from a lifetime of being part of the Ward family just what the cost had so often been, in Britain's darkest hours throughout history. As the French Air Force Puma landed on a grassy football field littered with trash and debris, Cameron determinedly shoved all thoughts of Sam out of his mind. This was the city his kid brother had last been heard from in, and there was always the chance he'd made it, or was hiding here or somewhere else in the country. It was possible; it would be some time before the last survivors were located, all the names and places tallied, and you could have any chance of being sure. Right now it was just too early to know.

But Cameron knew Sam had understood well, even at fifteen years old, what the cost could be for choosing to be a soldier. He knew how much Sam had adored his big brothers in the Navy and Marines. What Cameron was afraid of, what he'd lived in constant terror of discovering ever since Dover was overrun during the outbreak, was not that Sam Ward would very likely have been willing to pay the price of being a British soldier at a time when the skies darkened and the nation called with a desperation never before heard in history- he already knew that. No, it wasn't Sam's _willingness_ to face the danger and if need be pay the price that Cameron was afraid of.

What he _was_ afraid of was that Sam had paid it.


	4. Chapter 4- Unendurable Things

**Chapter IV- Unendurable Things**

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The city of Dover was just like the rest of England; save for birds and wild dogs, it was devoid of life. Trash, wrecked cars and bodies littered the streets, and many sections of the city stood in ruins. Only Manchester had known true and absolute devastation; that city had burned almost literally to the ground; the low estimates put the fires as having destroyed or severely damaged 85% of the city of Manchester. Well over three-quarters, and in some places the fire still wasn't out.

Dover had been beautiful before the outbreak; now its once clean and orderly streets were littered with dead bodies, wrecked cars and a million forms of flotsam and garbage. But the landing infantry teams ignored the litter and waste, and the first teams to step off the helicopters even ignored the bodies. They were here to make sure the city was truly dead, that its last infected were gone and that no survivors still lurked anywhere in the ruins.

But once in a while, as they swept up and down one empty street after another, Cameron Ward looked down at the bodies. They hardly even looked like people; their flesh badly decayed, they were little more than skeletons now. In a way it was a mercy, seeing them that way; you had an easier time forgetting all those bodies had once been mothers, fathers, brothers and sons.

The first teams landed in Dover at 0600; five hours later the city was tentatively declared safe. Many sections still needed to be searched, though, and now that the city at large was under some measure of military control, the sweeping of individual buildings and properties would need to commence.

Somehow… some way, D Troop ended up heading, closer and closer, to a certain beautiful old street in the city. Ward tried telling himself it was just because nobody had been out this way yet, and places like schools would need to be searched most of all. But when he saw the chapel's steeple rising above the buildings in the distance, when he suddenly felt himself become twelve years old again, a boy once more just entering Haig House with his brother already the Head Boy… Cameron felt himself pulled, tugged in that direction. He could not turn away; he could not stop his rising need to go there and know.

At 11:30, Cameron Ward led his troop through the front gates of the Duke of York's Royal Military School. It was good to see his old home again. And better, to know it hadn't been touched by the same fires that had ravaged every school in Manchester, or bombed like some had been in London.

Cameron's step slowed as he passed the front gates; he looked around in wonder, smiling a little as he gazed around the grounds of his old home for the first time in what seemed like an entire life.

A few of Ward's men whispered things, murmured to themselves distractedly; their troop leader wasn't the only one having old memories come flooding back.

Cameron Ward smiled a little as they advanced into the grounds of the school, happy at finding it intact, but his good cheer soon vanished. Soon he started to see more than just old memories, and the shattered windows, bashed-in doors, fallen barricades and countless other tales of desperate battles and the carnage they wrought soon began to become obvious.

"Stay frosty, lads," Ward said quietly, and his troop moved in to search the grounds of Britain's oldest military school for boys- and later, girls- with their rifles up and caution foremost in their minds.

It was obvious a desperate battle had been fought here; at second glance, even the guard post at the front gate told of a fight waged by boys who knew only some of how to wage war like their fathers and older brothers. Behind a shattered pane of glass, a near-skeletal boy's camouflaged body slumped in a chair. He had a Great War Two-issue Lee-Enfield rifle beside propped between his knees and a lot of shell casings around him; the last, still in the chamber, had fired its bullet into the boy's head.

Suddenly, Cameron realised why, down the street and in sight of the guard post, the road was mysteriously littered with bodies, all sprawled as if they'd been running towards the Duke of York's front gates. "Fuckin' hell," Sergeant Barber whispered once he noticed. This lad had single-handedly stalled the advance of the infected into the school for who knew how long, and when he ran out of ammunition had shot himself rather than risk becoming a menace to his comrades.

"Going to have some medals to write these lads up for," Corporal Chase said quietly. The rest of the men murmured agreement.

The search went on, and more and more tales of determined, resolute last stands were made clear to D Troop of 45 Commando. A few regular soldiers had apparently retreated into the school, perhaps helped organize the defense… but from the look of things, these lads had done much of it themselves.

The chapel had clearly been the centre of the boys' defense; tall and imperious, the red brick and stained glass structure stood almost totally intact; only the carnage that surrounded it at ground level told of what had been done there.

There were a handful of cars and lorries parked around the chapel, blocking off points that the piles of sandbags, bricks, and even furniture no doubt gleefully dragged from the classrooms hadn't covered. Many, many bodies of fallen infected surrounded the various blockades; and like the guard post out front, many dead boys in camouflage littered the other side of the barricade.

One point in the defense, particularly moving to the Marines as they sifted through the carnage, had one very small body in combats lying beside another, the both of them having been holding up an L96 light machine gun that had fallen back over the sandbags after their deaths.

But as Cameron Ward knelt beside them, he cursed in astonishment: these two lads, probably brothers and new boys at the school, had been shot from behind. A few bodies in fatigues, some having dispatched themselves with their own firearms, littered the front of the chapel; they must have fallen trying to get inside, and shot themselves rather than be taken by the infected.

That was the case, ultimately, with nearly every fallen lad in combats that the Commandos found outside the chapel. These lads had clearly planned that part of the action out; there was evidence that even the seemingly-isolated last stands elsewhere on the premises had been diversions, deliberately meant to stall the infected and by the centre of the defense time. The chapel had clearly been the centre of it all; it had the heaviest defenses, and the most bodies. Many, many dozens of dead civilians- all facing as if they'd fallen charging the chapel's heavy front doors- littered the front of the chapel. The big, tall wooden doors had been swung wide open, and as Ward took point and cautiously looked inside, he saw, sitting on a tripod and with a sea of spent brass casings around it, a captured German MG-42 machine gun. The men moved inside and looked from the gun to the doorway, a distance of perhaps some fifty feet.

The boys who'd retreated in here had clearly been anticipating the fact that the infected would follow them. Their plan had worked pretty well, it seemed.

But more civilian bodies could be found inside the chapel. The men were impressed at the courage of the lads at the school some of them had once attended, but seeing all these dead was nothing less than sobering. The men of D Troop headed into the chapel, and Cameron Ward's face grew particularly tense, particularly grim, as he approached the head of the chapel and its raised central platform. He kept his rifle ready as he moved towards the circle of bodies in their combat uniforms, on the lookout for something he desperately hoped he would not find…

He'd been checking each of the lads' names; they all had them sewn on the uniforms, just like the Army did. So far, each time it had been another name besides WARD. Never Ward, and Cameron was desperately praying that was a name he'd never see, not unless the boy it belonged to was still among the living.

"Fuckin' hell," somebody said again, and this time it was Chase. The men stood over the twelve or so bodies that lay at the head of the chapel; all three avenues of approach had fallen infected marking them. The central aisle, the left and right- all three had been fired on, and from the look of it by volleys of controlled fire.

As Ward stood over the dead boys, these who had clearly been some of the last of the Duke of York's defenders, Sergeant Barber spoke quietly beside him. "Looks like they tried the British Square; just like we read in the old history books. Used to be the most effective infantry tactic in the world, long as the chaps you were shooting didn't have guns themselves."

That was how it looked, all right. "The British Square, of all the damned things." Ward whispered. Even so, his voice seemed to echo in the sacred silence of this church, now made a crypt by the hand of God and the carnage of war. Cameron hoped God would look kindly on the sacrifices made by these lads who had so fiercely defended His house to the last. They, as much as any, deserved admission into the place most called Heaven.

As for why the boys had all fallen backwards or on their sides, and been grouped in a circle before? "Mass suicide," Sergeant Barber said, scratching the black hair under his helmet. "The lads shot themselves with their last bullets, just like at the gate."

"Write up the names of every one of these lads," Ward said suddenly, his voice hard and determined. These boys would be honoured. Their sacrifice would not be forgotten. They might have fought actions elsewhere in the city beforehand, and at least a hundred or more infected- possibly even three hundred- had been killed in or near the school grounds.

His men began to move off, dutifully checking for ID and nametags, writing down the names of each of the Duke of York's fallen defenders. Ward waved them off from the circle at the head of the chapel; that lot he would identify for himself.

Kneeling, Cameron looked down at one near-skeleton, lying on his back with a Lee-Enfield fallen across his knees. Suddenly, the world jolted sideways; Cameron had to steady himself. That sandy-blonde hair… it looked familiar. And even after more than 40 days of decay he still recognized that boyish, handsome face. Tall, athletic and energetic even for his age, Sam Ward had been a credit to the House of both his older brothers- Haig- and to the Ward family name. He'd been courageous, a natural at military drill; the kind of lad that not only his peers but even the instructors admired without reservation.

Cameron Ward, veteran of more than twelve actions with the infected and several with the men of the former 52nd Infantry Brigade, abruptly dropped his rifle and stood up, wandering in a daze towards the front pew bench. He turned around and sat down heavily, and in an instant lost all caring of where he was- not to mention who he was. All of it just fell away; every bit of it just ceased to matter.

Cameron ignored Sergeant Barber's alarmed look, didn't even hear Corporal Chase's astonished questions. They wanted to know what it was, what had happened- but that didn't matter. Cameron knew what was wrong for all three of them.

Then, one of the youngest-ever VC recipients and the first Royal Marine to receive it in the 21st Century put his head in his hands and bawled. He had simply reached his limit; there was literally no more he could take. "He's dead, you stupid bastards," Cameron moaned as the first sobs began to wrack his body. "He's dead, you stupid bastards. He's dead."


	5. Chapter 5- In Mourning

**Chapter V- In Mourning**

* * *

For over a week Cameron Ward lay in his bed on the _HMS Invincible_; he had been brought there, locked into an almost catatonic daze, by his concerned troop sergeant after the discovery of Sam's body at the Duke of York's in the city of Dover. Barber and the other men had tried to bring their lieutenant around again, but there was no bouncing back this time. Cameron didn't want to talk to anybody, didn't want to be anybody. He didn't even want to exist; not when he felt like a criminal for doing so.

He didn't protest when they took his sidearm, but knew he'd soon want it back. He had no right to live.

The men talked with the crew of the ship, and the captain himself intervened when a dispute arose over allocating one of the cabins. The captain turned his quarters over to the first officer so the first officer could vacate his own. Cameron made a note to thank the _Invincible_'s captain for his generosity, but when the young soldier briefly muttered thanks to the older man when he appeared at one point, the Navy officer just waved him off. He looked down at Cameron, staring into the boy's tear-streaked face and tear-reddened eyes, and said quietly, "No, sir- thank _you_."

That brief, mumbled effort to thank the _HMS Invincible_'s captain was all that Cameron said for that that day. He spoke not a word the next day, or the next. For three whole days he refused to eat, but finally decided to stop ignoring the trays of food pushed under the door. He knew somebody out there cared enough to bring them each day; he had to show some respect for that.

The Navy sent in a chaplain to try to talk to Cameron, and a Navy psychologist after that. Cameron simply didn't acknowledge either of them, and soon after that they just left him alone.

He spent hours, countless hours, just staring up at the gray steel ceiling and right off into infinity.

Royal Marines were as tough and resilient as they came, trained to overcome impossible odds as a way of life. But this went beyond even what the Bootnecks of Her Majesty's Corps of Royal Marines could do. This went past what even a Marine officer was trained to endure. There was no way to describe it, no means with which Cameron could have defined the terrible grief he felt.

At the end of the Second Great War, the Emperor of Japan had said something about "enduring the unendurable". Cameron understood what the man had been talking about now.

For hour after hour, day after day, Cameron Ward lay in the room they'd brought him to, not knowing how much time had passed, and not caring. He cursed the scientists at Cambridge for not knowing when to stop meddling in things best left alone; he cursed the family he'd been born into for always sacrificing for Britain and never thinking about themselves much at all. He cursed himself and his older brother David for joining the military as tradition dictated; last of all, Cameron just cursed himself. He was damned, damned for all time. It was the duty of the big brother to protect the little one; that was just how things were. And when England was dying and the Army even then starting to fall apart, Cameron had turned away from any chance to save his brother and fought on to Manchester with the Royal Marines. He'd left his brother to fight on alone, to do what he no doubt had believed his big brothers were doing, would expect him to do. Cameron had left Sam to die… because it was his duty.

Some excuse.

It was only after at least a week that an orderly entered the room; a young, pale-faced sailor who seemed terrified to disturb even a near-catatonic VC recipient. Stammering apologies all the while, the lad laid out Cameron's black dress uniform on the table across the room. He cleared his throat, though, and managed to summon some courage: he turned to Cameron and said, very respectfully, "Sam Ward has been awarded the George Cross, sir."

Cameron looked at the sailor then, nodding in acknowledgement. Sam had no doubt led at least half of the entire defense; he'd probably been the one who thought of using the British Square instead of modern infantry tactics; Sam had always been a big history reader.

The sailor left soon after, again offering his apologies and his condolences. Cameron finally sat up, then, and looked at the sailor just as he started to close the door. "Thanks", was all Cameron said. It was the first time he'd spoken in at least seven days.

They told him of the cleanup going on in Britain, of the successful establishment of the Districts and how Dover was now totally pacified. The city was being cleaned up, and already the British government had plans for a memorial to the heroic defenders of the Duke of York's, who- according to letters written by the boys and found on their bodies or in their rooms, where they knew people would find them- had indeed been led by Cadet Sergeant Sam Ward. Not the oldest, but certainly the most determined, he'd taken command after the older boys had fallen and been a trusted leader among the cadets long before. He'd led them until the very last, inspired them to fight on when all had seemed- and indeed been- lost. They had fought to the end.

Then, on the eighth day he spent in that cabin aboard the _Invincible_, someone stepped through the door Cameron had not expected to see again for some time, if ever.

"Hey there, _you_," said the tall Navy officer, famed- and decorated- for his gallant taking command of the ballistic missile submarine _HMS Vanguard_, going from executive officer to commanding officer after her captain had become trapped in London on leave. He was the only one of the three with a real hint of orange in his hair, an indication of the family's Northern Irish connections. But he was as English as any man ever born, and carried himself with the strict discipline expected of every Royal Navy officer.

"God's _teeth_!" Suddenly, Cameron jumped up from the bed, and ignoring all protocols of rank or any of the rest of that rot ran to his older brother.

Cameron wept, unashamed, as he embraced his big brother, the oldest of the three and the one who'd been serving his country longest. He wept like he'd never done in his life, and through the tears managed to say, "He's dead, David. Sam's dead. They gave him the bloody GC."

David Ward gently held his brother, holding him as the sobs wracked his younger brother's body… and tears began welling in the eyes of the older brother, too. David had never been so happy as he'd been the day he discovered his younger brother was alive, and not only that had ended up a war hero. The joy he knew at discovering this- and finding there was a good, solid chance their parents had escaped to the remote Highlands of Scotland- was only matched by the grief of knowing Sam was gone.

Cameron repeated himself, mumbling through tears that Sam was gone, Sam was a hero, and finally David just squeezed him a little, halting his younger brother. "I know." David whispered, now through his own tears. "I know."


	6. Chapter 6- Brothers' Promise

**Chapter VI- Brothers' Promise**

* * *

There was a brief ceremony held at the family cemetery in Northern Ireland, just outside of the small town of Cookstown, in County Tyrone. It was a peaceful own; even in the darkest days of The Troubles it had managed to stay intact, the neighbors vowing to set aside their differences and never let war divide themas it did so much of Ireland. Some were Protestant, some Catholic- but all wanted God's greatest wish, which was for peace.

They buried Sam on a Saturday, one of the first sunny days of that year. Cameron couldn't help but wonder if the warm sun wasn't smiling down on his brother's casket… letting him know he'd done all right.

It was a nice thing to think about. If God owed anyone some kindness, it was a good younger brother like Sam Ward. He'd been a good lad; nothing else. In every picture you saw of him, anywhere in the Ward household in the English countryside north of Plymouth before the outbreak, Sam was smiling. Not only that, he was grinning from ear to ear, truly and unequivocally happy. He was a happy boy, one totally in love with life and everything it had to offer. He'd adored his older brothers from the day he met them, always wanted to be like them and wanted, even before the outbreak, to be as good a soldier as they were.

But Cameron's fondest memory before the outbreak, the memory of Sam he treasured most, was not of anything to do with the military. It wasn't even the day he'd made Corporal, and Sam and David had both been there, grinning from ear to ear, hugging him and offering their congratulations.

No, already Cameron was realizing his most treasured memories from before the outbreak were not of any time he'd achieved something in the Corps. They were days at school, when he'd been chosen to join David's Haig House at the Duke of York's, and his big brother had solemnly nodded his approval from up at the High Table. There were fistfights- some serious and some playful- with his classmates and with his brothers; all three had been close, all their lives. They'd loved to fight each other, but they'd loved more to fight for each other.

The day Cameron knew he'd always treasure most had been just after he'd left Dukie's and joined the Corps, graduating Selection as 4th in his class. He'd come back to the Duke of York's with his parents and older brother, and rather than call ahead of time had simply walked onto the school grounds. Sam, like his older brothers, was an avid football player; he was a competent offensive player, but what Sam truly loved was defense. He delighted in cutting off a rival player's pass, took joy in every time he stopped what would have been a goal. There was something Sam just loved about digging his heels in and making the enemy pay for every inch of the field he took; that, his instructors observed, was an excellent quality in a soldier.

So rather than spoil the surprise by calling in ahead of time, Cameron had simply walked out to the football field on the Duke of York's grounds and stood right beside the edge of the playing field, his dress uniform new and absolutely spotless. Sam had joyfully taken the penalty for breaking off from the game, running up to his brother and hugging him. "You made it, Cameron," Sam said, looking up at his big brother from under that mess of sandy-blonde hair. "You made it." Sam's eyes shone with admiration, and it was obvious he could not have been more proud.

It was painful, though, to know all that was now a memory. The infection was slowly but steadily taking everything from Cameron. Soon, he wondered if he'd have any friends or family left at all. He'd lost so much already, and the pain in his heart threatened to incapacitate him still.

Cameron had ultimately refused to wear his dress uniform; he'd left his VC in its small, pine wood box in his cabin aboard the Invincible. He could barely stand to look at any of it.

David had likewise opted for a formal civilian suit, dressed in his finest black and very solemn indeed. His stern façade looked like it was starting to crack; on the day of the funeral, David didn't look so well. The stresses of commanding a boat at sea while his nation died around him must have been getting to the eldest of the Ward brothers. How that stress would end up showing, though, nobody could have imagined.

Only a few surviving relatives and friends came to the funeral; while the framed picture of Sam did have his cased GC beside it, along with a description of his gallant actions as best they could be reassembled by investigators, it was strictly a private affair.

Both of the older Ward brothers listened solemnly as the chaplain, a good Christian man who was respected by Catholics and Protestants alike, told them of how "The judgments of the Lord are fair and righteous altogether," and of Sam he said, "No man hath greater love than to lay down his life for a friend." Cameron certainly understood that second part. He wondered, though, about the first. How much justice was there in any of this? Had Britain simply become the land that God forgot?

As each of the gathered few stood by Sam's black coffin and silently said their goodbyes, gradually people began to move away. Cameron, though, went up to the coffin and removed his hat, taking off the globe-like emblem of the Corps and pinning it to the coffin. "You made it, too," Cameron said quietly. "You passed Selection." Silently, he made a promise. Already, some two weeks after discovering his brother's death, some measure of Cameron's old strength was returning. Standing there with his hand on his little brother's coffin, Cameron silently promised Sam that he would fight on. That he would fight and fight and fight… until the Rage Virus died, or he did. It was what Sam would have wanted; what he'd have done in Cameron's place.

David was definitely not holding up well, though; after most everyone else had gone, he went up to Cameron, eyes red and accusing. "Did you tell Mum he was at school?" David demanded.

Cameron stared, surprised. "Yeah, I-"

"And you thought _you'd_ just let him go, huh? Better to just leave me on my stupid boat and let Sam on his own!"

Suddenly Cameron felt himself getting angry.

"You have _no idea_ what it was like on land, David," Cameron said quietly, his voice a deadly warning. "The infected were everywhere. We'd better be ready to use those missiles your boat has if we want to stop it next time. If it breaks out on the Continent, that may be all that will work."

David stared. Suddenly he grabbed his brother's shoulders, pointing at Sam's coffin, recently lowered into the ground with the shovel-bearers still waiting in the distance. "Was it worth it, Cameron?" David said harshly, his voice breaking with long-suppressed grief. "How many more bodies are you gonna put in the ground before you've killed enough? Bloody nuking the _Continent_, man! What's next? This virus is _dead_ and you want to start destroying the _world_?"

"Shut up!" Cameron screamed, his self-control cracking. "_Shut up_!"

But David wasn't gonna stop. Maybe he couldn't. He just went on relentlessly, "But what do I know, right? All I do is stay on my stupid boat and stand ready to launch those stupid missiles. Must be tough being the big VC man in the family. Sir Cameron _bloody_ Ward. Must be tough burying your GC brother-"

That did it. Cameron's fist shot out abruptly, clocking the commander of the HMS Vanguard in the jaw. David fell back against a nearby gravestone, bracing himself and halting his fall just in time. Cameron advanced, fists raised and his eyes narrowed to slits… and then suddenly, he just stopped. "I wish I could think of something clever to say," Cameron hissed, "but I think _au revoir_ will suffice."

He spun on his heel and walked away, never even once glancing back.

The next day Cameron rejoined his unit, relocating to the new 45 Commando, A Company barracks in District One, located in London's Isle of Dogs.

Two days later, a letter arrived at the barracks. It was stamped with the emblem of the _HMS Vanguard_, bearing the signature of her captain.

Cameron sighed. He didn't know what to think. He'd just been so miserable over losing Sam; both of them had been. What each of them had said and done- at their own brother's funeral, no less- was unforgivable. But after a few moments, Cameron felt a sense of hope; hope that this letter meant there was still a chance better things lay in the future, and that the two remaining Ward brothers would not let Sam's loss ruin their friendship. Cameron braced himself, then opened the letter and began to read.

_Dear Cameron,_

_By now the news of Sam's medal has reached the world. He was fifteen years old; he's now one of the youngest GC holders in history. I know you don't like hearing about that, but Sam would have been honoured to hold a medal on the same precedence as yours. It would have meant everything to him to know he'd been brave like you._

_I cannot make any excuse for my behavior two days ago; therefore, I will not try. I was beside myself with grief when I heard about Sam, and I guess I was also envious of what heroes the both of you had become, risking everything in combat with the infected while I just stayed safe on my submarine and watched. That was what killed me most of all, during the outbreak; casting off and diving deep, knowing I could have done something to stop the infected but because of orders did nothing at all. Britain needs her four missile boats now, more than ever- the world must know we're down, but not out. We still have one card left up our sleeve, and anyone who thinks to take advantage of us now must know we're ready to use it._

_I've been thinking about what you said about how we have to be willing to fight. How if the Virus somehow gets to the Continent, the _Vanguard_'s missiles may be needed to stop it._

_I'm not really supposed to tell you this, but since the infection two of her missiles have had their warheads replaced. We sailed to Belfast, and I hear that us and the Yanks modified this tactical warhead for subs. They call it the W56, and it does about what the Yanks' bombs over Japan did. Low yield- 20 kilotons against a W76 warhead's 100 kilotons. But it'll still destroy a city, or most of a real big one. I've been told that the 56 is meant for just what you talked about- destroying the virus in one place, wherever it might start, if it ever starts on the Continent. Should it start in France, we'll do it for them if they won't or can't do it themselves. Anything's better than handing all of Europe to the infected._

_I'm sorry for being at sea for all those times before the outbreak, and for trying to blame you for what happened to Sam. I know Mum and Dad tried to reach him, and I know they made it away somewhere safe. I know Sam knew he was fighting the good fight for England, just like you and I did._

_We're both blessed and cursed to have been born into a family like this one, I suppose. We serve the Crown first and ourselves last; few families like ours even exist anymore. They say that England's been going downhill ever since the Second Great War, all because our best men died fighting Hitler. This family of ours is proof not all of those men died on the battlefields. England is in her darkest days in history, Cameron- Britons are almost extinct. Like it or not, the people still need us._

_I know I haven't always been the brother you and Sam- not to mention Mum and Dad- wanted me to be. But I want you to know I'm proud of you. Mum and Dad, wherever they are, would be proud of you too. You did the right thing during the infection, and I know one day all this will end. Someday you and I will drink tea in the backyard of our houses in the English countryside, and on sunny days nothing but a few singing birds will ever again disturb the peace._

_One last thing, Cameron, and this I need you to never forget. I will always be there for you, from now to the end of our days. I believe you when you say that we've got to be willing to do anything to stop the infection. One can only wonder- had we been able to bring ourselves to nuke London or Cambridge, could we have stopped the infection there? It might have been worth it, had it only saved England._

_The _HMS Vanguard_ patrols the Eastern coast of Britain now; often we stay on the surface, watching through our scopes for activity on land, and signals from survivors._

_If anything should happen- if there is a second outbreak- get to the eastern coast of England, just where the border meets with Scotland. You remember how Aunt Sarah had a summer home there before the outbreak, right there on the coast. If anything happens, if it starts again, get to that spot on the coast. I'll make sure my lads pick you up._

_Just stay safe out there, Cameron. I couldn't stand to lose you twice._

_David Ward._


	7. Chapter 7- Repatriation

**Chapter VII- Repatriation**

* * *

24 January, 2003. The latest airliner to arrive at Heathrow airport was greeted by only a handful of people. Major Scarlet Ross watched from the lobby area, dismayed by the lack of forewarning from higher-ups that children would now be arriving in District One. A few differently-attired soldiers also stood in the airport waiting area, gazing at the arrivals with stoic expressions and mixed emotions. Bearing the standard combat uniform of the British Army and Royal Marines and a flash with the words ROYAL MARINE COMMANDO on their left shoulders, the soldiers stood closely by their commander. A man they had known for only a short time yet, but already they would gladly follow anywhere.

He was Sir Cameron Ward now, a reward granted personally by Her Majesty after the brilliant success of 45 Commando's famous young lieutenant in leading the raid that captured the self-proclaimed general of the former 52nd Infantry Brigade. The loss of Markley had severely demoralized the former soldiers of the 52nd, and his capture was credited by all members of the NATO coalition with having helped secure a victory for the NATO-backed Cumbrian Communities Alliance.

Like all of the Marines standing watch in the airport waiting area, Ward kept his rifle slung over his shoulder, but made no move to reach for it as the new arrivals disembarked. Instead, the young officer simply stood and watched. More were coming every day now, it seemed. It had been 7 months now since the unspeakable hell of the outbreak. A full twenty-eight weeks.

The last known infected had starved to death weeks ago, or been killed. As far as the NATO task force's higher-ups were concerned, the Rage virus was dead, and Britain was a dead country. All that was needed was a heavily-armed force to safeguard the effort to bring it back to life.

It was hard to believe people were already coming back- and in such numbers!- but here they were. As bizarre as it was to think about, Ward was fast discovering he found the restoration of civilian life a vastly more intimidating task than killing infected; the infected just snarled and charged; civilians talked and chattered and had a million questions, each never the same as the last.

Plus, you were supposed to… _talk_ to them. Or something.

You also weren't allowed to kill them. Not that Ward wanted to; these were British civilians, and he was glad to see their return in the four Reconstruction Districts set up so far. But even so, after so long behind the lines Ward often felt like he understood the infected better than he did actual people. The infected were merciless and aggressive, but they were also consistent, and they never lied to you. They were the enemy, an enemy who would never negotiate, never surrender. They would fight to the very end- just like Cameron Ward and the Royal Marines. But civilians? They were each as different as a snowflake, and not one of them seemed consistent to another at all. Different clothing, different mannerisms, different personalities- for Ward it sometimes got to be too much. Sergeant Barber had remarked once that his OC wasn't too good with people anymore. He was probably right.

The Royal Marines present in London numbered only a hundred, but they were some of the most experienced veterans available, and all knew Lieutenant Ward personally at this point. The Marines was a very small organization these days, and it was only too easy to know everyone. Ward would have known everyone in 45 Commando regardless; a strong believer in knowing one's comrades, senior and junior in rank, he made a special point of speaking with every member of his Commando unit at least once. He also liked to watch the new arrivals at the airport when he could; the Americans would always grumble about the Marines 'barging in', feeling they could take care of airport security themselves. The paratroopers certainly had enough guns- guns and Kevlar, which Ward had trouble understanding.

Kevlar was of little use against the infected; they carried no firearms, towed no artillery. In fact, during the gallant delaying action 45 Commando had fought south of Manchester, infected soldiers from the failed defensive actions in London had been among the enemy. They proved the hardest to kill, as their body armor prevented most shots to the heart and lungs. Worse still were the ones with helmets. So what were the Yanks wearing all that armour for here? It made no sense. Ward knew few of the American soldiers present liked him much; his blunt manner and stubborn refusal to believe the infection was gone contrasted quite starkly with their often casual, arrogant swagger and a firm belief that the infection would and could never return.

But all of that was okay, because Ward knew the Americans were wrong, and as long as he was telling Colonel Mandrake that, the British forces in the repatriation zones would stay vigilant. They wouldn't get sloppy, and already Ward could see the Americans were doing it. Their soldiers packed plenty of firepower, but little in the way of gas masks and other defensive measures better suited to guarding against the bites and blood-vomit of the infected. They stood around behind their .50 caliber guns and sandbag emplacements as if someone up top wasn't sure whether the infected or the Russians were going to come charging around a corner.

The refugees from today's flight filed into the airport waiting area, staring wide-eyed at the empty room. Calm and clean, it showed no evidence of the carnage that had visited this very place not so long ago. The men and women, in their countless assortments of sweaters, khakis and the occasional pair of jeans, also noticed the soldiers. The Brits in the room were greeted with a nod, or the occasional wave; some just gave them a stony look and kept going. Some spotted Ward as he turned to watch them, whispering excitedly to each other. He kept his face expressionless, but inwardly Ward groaned. When was this going to end?

He'd been on the news more times than he cared for; one of Britain's surviving comedy show hosts had invited him on even, in that same tradition the Americans seemed to love of inviting war heroes and celebrities onto a show that was meant to be funny. Ward had talked about everything under the moon but his battles during the infection, and that was the very thing many people wanted to know. But he and the host had discussed his VC, and the young age at which he'd received it. Of meeting the Queen, of receiving so high a medal at so young an age- and being the first Bootneck to receive it since 1945- he said the same thing, always. An honour. It's such an honour this, and so honouring that, and so on and so forth. It had gotten very tiresome, answering so many questions from so many people.

But that day on the BBC, he'd memorized no lines, prepared no script. There Ward had simply spoken from the heart. When they'd gotten onto the subject of Britain's reconstruction and the plans already in motion to do it, Ward had really made an impression, talking passionately about how the infection would be killed forever, and how Britain would be on her feet again just as soon as possible. He'd sat there in his dress uniform, a row of medals on his chest, and with real fire in his eyes told the world that Britain could not be defeated by this virus. _Would_ not be defeated. How the survivors would fight and fight and _fight_, safeguarded by the British military and its allies, until tomorrow belonged to England again. Normally a calm and controlled individual, Ward had nearly broken down at that point. It was one of the few televised indications the public had ever had of the fury beneath the form.

The returning Britons continued to stream into the airport. Ward now noticed a significant difference between how they greeted the presence of so many soldiers; whether they cheered or jeered, they gave real recognition to the soldiers they saw as their own. Ward received a separate set of reactions- so often did he get looks of respect, and even awe. But the Americans were a different story. Against so many dozens of looks given to the Royals, the refugees gave the Americans one. Nothing. They just stared at them, their faces becoming if anything a little frosty. Some looked nervous. But those were minor differences; for the most part, the British civilians just turned their faces to stone. Neither love, nor hate- but perhaps, inwardly, a silent wish that this reconstruction would hurry up and end, so they'd see far fewer soldiers on the streets and in the airports. And the ones they did see would be their sons, brothers, fathers and daughters. Just like it had been in the days before.

Ward took all this in, neither confirming nor denying the looks the civilians gave him, good or bad. But he did remember, at the end of that day, the two children as they got off the plane. A tall girl with sharp blue eyes and blonde hair spilling over her shoulders led a younger boy with messy brown hair, his eyes- oddly- two different colours. The girl seemed to have her mind elsewhere, but when the boy spotted Ward and his men, he all but literally stopped and stared, his eyes wide. He tugged at his sister's hand and pointed again when she turned. "It's him, Tam. It's him!" he whispered in awe. The crowd as a whole pressed on, though, and his sister wanted to continue. But he cast a look back as he left. Ward felt that odd, almost- and at times acutely- uncomfortable feeling he got anytime someone looked at him that way. Sergeant Barber thumped him on the shoulder, smiling a little. "Looks like someone's found a hero, sir."

Now Ward's thoughts turned bitter, and he grimaced a little, as if tasting something unpleasant. "Oh, bollocks." He said, shaking his head, staring out at the once-again empty lobby as the last refugees disappeared into the terminal, on to in-processing. "All I did was shoot a lot of people."

But he kept thinking about what Barber said.

The rest of the morning passed without incident. The Commandos had few direct guard duty assignments- much to the disgruntlement of the Yank paratroops, the Commandos largely kept to themselves. They had neither the strength in numbers to stand around intimidating civilians, nor the desire to have much to do with sanitizing the rest of London. Returning to debris-strewn scenes where such horrible carnage had once passed by brought back bad memories, even for those who hadn't actually fought in the infection. Mandrake, listening to Ward as he often did, kept his men largely confined to support, administrative, and public relations duties. They were ready to fight, and 'fire brigade' units like the Commandos were to be on the frontline if that happened. But for now, the task of the American troops was to do the majority of the guarding and cleaning up. The British troops were there to give balance to the heavy military presence of the Americans, and help the British repatriates return to normal life however they could. A handful had even volunteered to reopen an Armed Forces recruiting office within the Isle of Dogs, offering the returning citizens the chance for enlistment if they wanted it. So far few had taken the opportunity. Ward was confident the recruits would eventually come. All they needed was time.

Midday found a handful of Commandos at one of the public dining halls in District One. Ward always sat one of the extreme ends or corners, never close to the doors, and he always carried his rifle. The presence of armed soldiers in the dining facility seemed to make some of the civilians uneasy, but Ward didn't care. All he knew was that where once he hadn't minded crowds at all, now he could barely stand them. His eyes flicked up and around the large room and its dozens of tables constantly, sizing up who he'd have to shoot first if infected came charging in and the Commandos had to fight their way out. He never saw anyone he knew. So many good friends had died during the infection, and so many more just vanished like wisps of smoke in the mist, that Ward found himself thankful. He didn't want to make friends anymore. He just wanted to live by the one thing he still understood, the one thing that had never changed through all that happened- the Commando flash on his left arm.

One table over, voices he recognized. A quick glance showed Major Ross shaking hands with the district custodian and his two children, Andy and Tammy. The lads weren't paying them much attention; while excellent soldiers, none of them seemed quite so razor-edge vigilant as Ward.

He didn't blame them- no one was left from 45 Commando's long march from Luton, that bloody, bitter fighting retreat that had ended in the fires of Manchester. Only him. All these new men had been brought in from other units, retrieved from Afghanistan, or in most cases recruited straight from the remaining civilian populace. They just weren't going to be like Ward; not until they'd been the same places he had.

Major Ross noticed Ward and his Marines while talking to the civilians, but aside from casting a glance his way did nothing. Ward held nothing against Ross- she was caring and respectful, both towards civilians and soldiers, and had none of that arrogance the Americans seemed determined, like everything else they did, to do better than anyone. Their paths crossed only rarely, though, and Ross clearly knew Ward had mixed poorly with the majority of the Army's personnel in London. She kept her distance.

The Harris family was another story. Andy- he was surprisingly alert for someone who, as his file said, had ridden out the infection in Spain- noticed the group of Marines almost immediately. Certainly the combat uniforms and assault rifles gave them away, but many of the hundreds milling about District One's common areas at lunchtime had seen enough soldiers that one more group made little difference. Andy, though, spotted Ward right away, and the instant Ward's gaze met his he looked away. Almost as if he didn't want Ward to feel he was being stared at.

After a few minutes of eating in silence, Ward got up. "Where you going, OC?" Private Chase asked him, looking up curiously. "Just going to say hello." Ward said, gesturing a few tables over. "If we didn't fight for them, why did we fight?"

Andy froze with the fork halfway to his mouth when Cameron Ward- THE Cameron Ward- walked up to his family's table in the dining facility. He stood just under six feet, but to Andy it looked more like seven. He had short sandy-brown hair, a boyish, rounded face, and gray eyes like a hawk. It was the eyes Andy would always remember afterwards; they had a sharp, hardened look to them, and did not at all match with his handsome, youthful looks. The eyes of an experienced marksman, Andy would always remember thinking that the owner of those eyes had seen a lot. Far more than someone that age should have.

Andy was still frozen in the act of eating his peas when Ward arrived, looking down at him with a much less frosty gaze than most typically received. For a moment, no one said anything. Andy's sister Tammy just looked at the young officer, unsure of what to say or do, while their father seemed if anything less certain. Then the lieutenant surprised them all by bursting out laughing. "Please, please- you mustn't stop eating because of me." Looking genuinely contrite, Ward went on, "I don't want to intrude." Looking at Don, he added, "I'd just like to say hello, if that's all right."

Don shook his head, smiling and looking visibly relieved. "No, no!" he insisted. "It's no trouble at all." He put out a hand. "Donald Harris, Section Officer." Ward already knew who he was, but shook hands anyway. Manners mattered, after all. "A pleasure, Mr. Harris. Lieutenant Cameron Ward, Royal Marines. I'm executive officer of the Commando force stationed in District One."

Don nodded, looking a little grim now. "I hope your men won't have much work to do" he said quietly. Ward nodded as well. "I hope so myself, sir. We've had no trouble so far. We're just here to make sure it stays that way." There was a brief silence as both men ran out of polite but meaningless things to say. Don then gestured to his children. "Major Ross was just by to make her introductions. I'm sure you'd like to meet District One's first children returnees."

Smiling warmly, Ward nodded. Andy would never forget how sincere that smile was. This man was genuinely glad to see them. Putting out his hand, he introduced himself to Tammy, who politely shook hands, and then turned to Andy. The younger Harris sibling stared at the Commando's outstretched hand. He looked up to Ward, his face written with surprise, as if to say- "Me? You want to talk to _me_?"

But manners kicked in where his brain otherwise had stalled, and Andy shook hands all the same. He met the young officer's grip as best he could; unsurprisingly Ward's was stronger. Firm and with no more power than was necessary, but Andy had a fleeting thought that if he'd wanted to, Cameron Ward could probably have crushed Andy's hand with only minimal effort.

But he showed no power here, no fierceness or strength. All he seemed to want was to say hello. The warrior that Andy had heard so much about was all but gone. Ward seemed to sense his standing over the Harris clan was somewhat intimidating, so with Donald's permission he took an empty seat. Turning to Andy- who seemed to interest him most anyway- he said, "This must be your first meal back in Britain." Andy nodded, and looking around Ward got two more nods in confirmation. Suggestively, Ward said, "It must be a disappointment. You were expecting a full waiter staff- the Waldorf Astoria's cooks brought over along with the US Army."

Andy thought this a bit funny, and gave a small smile. Tammy answered for him, saying, "It's better than the camps." Looking at her, Ward nodded sagely. "I've heard about them. I'm sorry we couldn't do any better." Again, the sincerity of those few words impressed Andy. Ward really sounded sorry, as if the refugee camps' conditions had somehow been his fault.

Andy found himself feeling confused; how did this friendly, well-mannered young man match up with the fierce warrior every Briton had heard about on the telly and the wireless? The last survivor of a Commando unit that had fought its way up to Manchester and then refused evacuation, saving thousands of lives through that one action… "Cameron Ward" was a name too big to believe. He'd held off a human wave of infected while the M62 Blockade collapsed all around him; he'd arrested Major Henry West and put an end to the corrupt officer's petty dictatorship. He'd even led a daring raid into Cumbria to kidnap 'General' Robert Markley, the dictator of the deserters from the 52nd Infantry Brigade. Total mission success and not a single man lost; the loss of Markley and the subsequent offensive by the American, Canadian, and British-backed North Cumbria Alliance all but ended the civil war in Cumbria within a week.

Andy had heard some of the Americans, most grudgingly or sarcastically, compare him to someone called "John Wayne", some type of iconic American Western movies hero. Andy just couldn't understand how someone who stood so proudly before the Queen while receiving the Victoria Cross could be so casual and polite now. But some part of these thoughts moved Andy to speak, because he said quietly, "It must have been worse… where you were." He didn't even dare say the word 'Manchester'.

Ward's head swung sharply back to look at Andy, and for just an instant his gaze bored into Andy, as if hunting out any scrap of sarcasm or insincerity. Finding none, he nodded sagely. He then shrugged, though, as if changing his mind about the acknowledgement. Or maybe that simple sentence had started to bring up memories that were much better left buried. Ward went on, "We're trained for that sort of thing. We can handle it. Our failure to provide properly for you… I can make no apology for it."

Tammy spoke again. "We're just glad to be back."

Andy added, still in that quiet voice, "You guys did all right."

Ward looked at Andy oddly then; the remark had touched him, simple as it was. "Yeah. We did."

Suddenly, as if wanting to shake off somber memories, Ward slapped a hand lightly on the table. "So!" he said, smiling a little, "I understand you lot are originally from London. I'm happy to say loose dogs and a lot of trash is all we've got out there now. The infected are gone; all of them. We've a lot of cleanup work to do, but in a few months' time District One won't be just on the Isle of Dogs anymore. We'll be expanding into London." Excitement lit in Ward's eyes, and his voice took on a hint of the power behind it. For just a moment, Andy had an image of what it must have been like to stand beside the young commando in battle; screaming out orders, appearing if anything more angry than the infected. Angry because they dared to attack his country on its home ground, furious because they dared to oppose him.

Ward focused his attention on Andy now. "You mustn't be too disappointed with the way things are now. Things will get better, Andy." Smiling a little, he added, "And I'll tell you what. When other children start coming back, if any of them don't play nice- or if any grownups bother you now- I'll set 'em straight for you." He essayed a small joke. "Besides your dad, that is. I can't interfere with him, you see." Across the table, Don smiled. Andy nodded, unsure of what else to say. Again he found himself stunned at being paid attention to in such a way, by someone who clearly had better things to do with his time. "Thanks," Andy said. "But, where would I find you? You know, if I needed you for something?"

Ward smiled a little as he got up. "Oh, I'll be around. The Royal Navy's submariners say, "We Come Unseen", but that applies to my lads too. We'll be everywhere and nowhere; as long as someone needs us."

With that, Ward nodded politely and turned to leave, but Andy spoke up then. He had to say this, if only because he might never speak with such a famous person again.

"Wait."

The young Marine officer turned back to face Andy, the picture of polite attentiveness. Cautiously, Andy asked, "Did you really do all the things they say you did? Did you really meet the Queen and everything?"

Ward nodded but said nothing else. He seemed to be waiting to see if Andy said anything more.

Feeling slightly emboldened, Andy asked another, more difficult question. "Why'd you stay? I heard they wanted to get Marines out. All the SF guys and everything."

Ward's face darkened; it was clear he was reliving some dark days, even in trying to answer a simple question. He had to clear this throat twice before speaking. "Someone had to buy all those people time."

Tammy asked, "Were you scared?", her sharp blue eyes wide and amazed. She, too, could hardly believe who she was talking to. This 20-year-old officer was a legend in his own time. It didn't seem like he even knew _how_ to be scared.

Ward didn't much care for too many questions, from anyone- especially about that damn VC. He could already tell the thing was going to follow him around for the rest of his life. Still, there were worse fates, and these two children were both very interested. They really just wanted to know.

So Cameron answered, "Yes. Always."

The children both looked stunned; Andy cautiously said, "I thought h-" he hesitated, somehow sensing the young officer would dislike that word. "I thought soldiers never got scared."

Cameron hadn't failed to notice what the boy had almost said. "Hero". God, was he getting tired of that word. "Hero of the Manchester Ten to be Presented Medal for Valour", "Cameron Ward, VC", and after the successful end of the Cumbria Conflict, "Sir Cameron Ward, VC". Knighted by the Queen herself, no less. Names, titles, ranks, honours- he was so sick of it all.

Yet he refused to stop doing the things that brought it all his way in the first place. He refused to stop being brave.

One day, drunk out of his mind while visiting his Uncle Nigel in Cookstown, Northern Ireland, Cameron had blurted, "It's the only thing I know how to do." That was as true a statement as he'd ever made.

Cameron knew he had to answer Andy's question, though. Moments like this were when the words flashed through his head, those big letters from the old WWII newsreels: "WHY WE FIGHT". He needed to let these two, if nobody else, know what it had really been like.

Cameron Ward looked straight at Tammy, then at Andy, choosing his words carefully as he spoke. "When the infected charged the line at the M62, we had not even 200 men in my section. 200 men facing at least 6,000 infected, with thousands of infected behind them. If you'd faced that, don't you think _you'd_ have been scared?"

Tammy seemed terrified at the very idea. "Yes," she answered without hesitation.

"Then why didn't you run away? Why didn't you hide?" Andy was scared to death of Cameron Ward, frightened at the very idea that his moments of boldness might upset the young officer, and ruin the one chance Andy was probably ever going to get to meet him.

But Cameron didn't mind. He wanted these two to know. Answering honestly, Cameron said, "I have no idea. To this day it amazes me I'm still alive. Every minute of every day we faced the infected I was scared out of my bloody wits. I guess I just stayed because the other lads needed me. And nobody else was there to fight the infected. Just us."

Ward paused, seeming to consider on whether to say anything more. Finally, he did, looking at Andy alone.

"I had a brother at the Duke of York's when the infection started. He'd have liked you."

And with that, the first living Royal Marine to receive the VC since the Second World War turned and walked away, sitting back down and returning to his own meal without comment. Andy saw him speak to one of his men occasionally, or answer a question when it was posed, but for the most part the lieutenant stayed silent, focused on his own thoughts. But he never relaxed; not in the entire time Andy watch him. The lieutenant would raise his eyes and scan the crowd constantly, and he would look up sharply at the slightest unusual sound. Andy had to be reminded by his sister more than once to remember his own food; he did, and by the time they left the dining hall, some of his boyish enthusiasm had come back again. Andy nudged his sister in the ribs as they left, whispering excitedly, "He _talked_ to us!"

But late that night, when Andy was lying in his bed staring up at the ceiling, his thoughts returned to one thing that he'd heard Ward say, mentioning having had a younger brother prior to the infection.

_Had_.


	8. Chapter 8- Starting Again

**Chapter VIII- Starting Again**

* * *

For his part, Ward remained withdrawn for the rest of that day, enough so that some of the men- the ones who'd been with him at Kent- began to worry. But each time anyone asked, he would smile a little and tell them he was fine. Ward hadn't been surprised by the respect he'd gotten when he walked over to the Harris family's table. Generals sought his advice- British generals at least; dignitaries of all sorts had invited him over for tea. Post-infection trainees gaped when he wasn't looking and snapped to attention when he was; in any room filled with Britons, the crowd parted like the Red Sea. Ward had so much damn respect he wanted to scream.

But Andy hadn't jumped up, chattering like he was some action hero. He'd been respectful, considerate- uncommonly so for his age. Just like Sam Ward had been. The thought was sobering, and Ward understood why the lads were worried throughout the day. But they believed him when he said he'd be fine- the men of 45 Commando's B Company trusted him absolutely. Later, standing watch on the rooftop of the tallest buildings in District One- some part of Ward loved seeing those glittering lights, seeing a city slowly come alive again- Ward said something to Sergeant Barber. It was a thought spoken aloud, and caught Barber quite by surprise. He hadn't expected to hear something like this from the OC- at least, not for a while yet. But he didn't hear anything incorrectly when Ward suddenly spoke to him, looking out over brightly-lit District one and still-dark London beyond.

"Robert, this is real, isn't it?"

Barber turned to the young officer. He was actually older than Ward- almost a full ten years. But Ward was in charge- he'd more than earned that right. And he wasn't speaking in rank, anyway- he was asking a friend.

"You think it isn't?" Barber asked in turn.

Ward shook his head. "No, I don't think I ever believed this _wouldn't_ happen… I think I've just been afraid for a long time. You know, to believe we'd actually get our country back. For so long I just thought whenever it _did_ happen, I'd be dead by then."

Ward paused, continuing to gaze out over the rooftops. He shifted the Accuracy International rifle, cradled in his arms. Then he went on, "Those kids coming back today… it made me think, Robert. If this is real for everyone _else_- if children are coming back to Britain now- why can't it be real for _us_?"

Barber nodded. He could see how much this meant to his boss- not just his boss, but his friend. One look at that young face and its terribly old eyes told Barber all he needed to know. Ward didn't just want to believe the reconstruction was happening- he needed to. After running so long on hopes, prayers and dreams, he now needed some tangible proof tomorrow really was going to be better than today. So to help drive the point home, Barber said, "Cameron, this district is real. The civilians we're guarding are real. We'll have this country back on its feet again soon enough. Because _that's_ real too."

Ward looked at his senior sergeant, a look of dawning hope in his eyes. "I… I'd like that. A lot." But then his face turned serious again; that look of grim resolution all who'd worked with him in the field knew so well returned to reassert itself. Ward grip tightened on his sniper rifle. "But I won't be putting away this-" he patted the rifle with one hand- "until I know I don't need it anymore. We've come a long way. But we've not come that far, not yet."

Two days later Tammy and Andy Harris were captured by a team of US Army special forces, specially tasked with quick capture and retrieval of any refugees who slipped outside the containment zone. The Commandos of 45 were on hand as additional security- within 120 seconds of notification, Ward entire troop had boarded a handful of borrowed Humvees and raced to the former Harris residence in London. The recapture of the two children was expected and as such things went routine. But no one had counted on finding one more survivor in the house.

That night, Ward was kept away from his barracks unusually late. Normally, by this long after nightfall he'd have been on patrol, or practicing hand-to-hand or bayonet fighting with his men. Instead, Ward was at the Medical Center, part of a furious three-way argument between Brigadier General Stone, Major Ross, and himself over what to do with Mrs. Harris. When told her blood contained the Rage virus, Ward's hand snapped to his shouldered firearm, his eyes wide with shock. Fighting down his initial panic, Ward managed to hear that she was a carrier rather than a regular infected; but in a sense, that made her more dangerous, as Ross confirmed she still had the ability to infect others.

"Kill her now!" Ward shouted. "Or I'll do it myself!"

Stone began walking away, perhaps already having made up his mind. Sensing this, both Ward and Ross followed. Ross actually got in front of the general and his entourage, all but literally begging for him to listen. "Please, sir! If she's a carrier, she is extremely valuable. Her blood could contain the key to a vaccine; even a cure!"

At this, Stone turned to the British lieutenant, veteran of so many horrific battles with the very worst of the infection. If there was ever a time when his opinion would be valuable, this was it. "Lieutenant. Would you say we much need a cure when she's the last infected alive?"

For a moment the room was silent. All eyes were on Ward; both Stone and Ross waited to hear what he'd say.

Ward chose his words carefully. Drawing on all he'd seen, all he knew, Ward responded, "Sir, this virus was created in a lab. We've got this woman's blood samples already. Kill her and the virus will only be alive in Major Ross' blood sample vials."

Stone looked straight at the young officer. "So you believe we should execute the carrier?"

Ward nodded emphatically; he'd made his decision. "As soon as possible, sir. And burn the body. With something this contagious, we can't take any chances.

"

Stone walked away again, presumably now to give the order to execute Mrs. Harris. Even then Ross tried to argue, following for just a few moments more. Ward heard her argue something about needing to run tests first. Stone's reply sharply cut her off.

"Run tests on her _corpse_, Major!"

Rooted to the spot by her commander's flat refusal, Ross at last gave up. Her shoulders slumped slightly, and she sighed. District One's chief medical officer could not have looked more dismayed. Then she turned from watching Stone's retreating back and walked back to Ward, a spark of anger in her eyes. "How can you be so cold? That woman is a human being. If we developed a cure, she could be with her family again." Now she shook her head, confused and angry. "Shouldn't you, of all people, want a cure for the virus?"

Ward stared back at Ross, shaking his own head sadly. She just didn't understand. All her medical learning, all her caring and intelligence, and at the end of the day Major Scarlet Ross was just like any other American in District One. So naïve it made Ward's heart ache. These sons of bitches were all going to die if the infection _did_ come back. The words echoed in his head; they were all going to _die_. The only ones that lived- if any- would then turn to Ward, yelling, "Why? Why didn't you tell us?" Ward had seen it before. He'd seen it all before.

So he gave the Major an honest response. It was the only kind of answer worth giving with the Rage virus. "Major, this virus was created by well-meaning scientists tinkering in a lab. Why in bloody hell would I want to see it kept on live support- and risk it coming back?"

Ross looked appalled. "So you say we should just _kill_ this woman?"

Now Ward really did look at Ross coldly. "I've killed plenty of women, ma'am. And men. And children. After so many millions dead, Major, one more won't make any difference. And this one is infected. You said so yourself. To kill the _virus_ we have to kill _her_."

Ross was not a combat soldier; she was a medical officer, one of the highest-ranked in her ROTC program all four years. But even with all she knew and understood about the human body and to a lesser extent the mind, she could not begin to understand- or condone- what Ward was saying.

She just stared at the young officer, who somehow didn't talk or act at all like someone not even close to thirty years old. It took Ross close to a full minute to find any words; in the meantime, Lieutenant Ward just stared back at her, arms folded across his chest, L85 on his shoulder and a flat, patient expression on his face.

Ross finally spoke again. "Were you always like this?"

She couldn't seem to find anything else to say. It was like arguing with a brick wall. Ward shook his head, though, almost seeming to shrug the question off.

"No. But I learned."

He then turned and walked away, leaving Major Ross to her vials and test-tubes. His barracks was a five-minute jog away from the medical center, and it seemed like a good night for a walk.

No more than twenty minutes later alarms began to go off everywhere. The Commandos were called on full alert- a Code Red was being enacted. Ward, busy driving Private Chase across a boxing ring the men had rigged up in B Troop's barracks, stopped, just a light sheen of sweat glistening on his brow. When the sirens wailing and the radio chatter at last registered, he looked back at Chase, then around him. Most all the men, veterans of only post-infection battles, seemed to have frozen in place. Ward was the first to move, tossing off his boxing gloves and hurling himself out of the ring. He filled up his lungs and screamed, "STAND TO! STAND TO! Code Red; everyone, full combat gear and be back in this room in thirty seconds! MOVE!"

Instantly the room was a blur of movement; every man knew his role now; they all had a job. In less than a minute, the men were completely combat ready. Hot on their leader's tail, the troop raced purposefully into the night.

It took them three minutes, in total, to reach the medical center. By that time the Americans had most of their men in place; Ward groaned out loud when he saw what they'd done. Deploying themselves with Cold War static defense tactics, they had sandbags, .50 caliber guns, and infantry set up right outside the medical center's front doors. Beside him, Sergeant Barber echoed spoke just what Ward was thinking. "Bloody hell. What do they think this is? It won't be the Chinese attacking them!"

Ward nodded, as much to himself as to Barber. The Americans were just setting their men up to be killed. When a Code Red was activated, all special forces units, as a rule, were to isolate themselves. They were to deploy where and when they were needed and operate entirely on their own if need be. Ward could already see that coming. This defense was not going to hold long, odds were. But even so, he had to try. As the Americans set up a circle of infantry around the medical center's entrance, with cries of "Containment failure! Containment failure!" going out over the radio, Ward waved his men forward. The Yanks were going to need their help.


	9. Chapter 9- Ward's Charge

**Chapter IX- Ward's Charge**

* * *

"**Many of the details and circumstances of the event that has come to be known as Ward's Charge are still hotly debated; only the name has never been called into question. The reason for that is simple: few individuals have ever committed an act so worthy of recognition for gallantry, provided such inspiration to the fighting men around them, or so completely altered the course of history."**

**-Alex David's **_**The Complete Victoria Cross: II (2053),**_** Chapter 15: Holders of the VC and Bar**

* * *

The Marines took up positions at the Americans' forward firing posts in the street, aiming their weapons straight downrange. Command was instructing even the Delta Forces men to use selective fire- only target infected. With a few whispered words and hand signals, Ward made clear to his men what the order of the day was. Regardless of what the American command center was saying, the Marines of B Troop knew exactly what they were going to do. When the panicking crowd from the underground parking garage emerged into the open and the forward-most American paratroopers started to fire, the Royal Marines started to fire too. But very differently from their American allies, they shot anyone not wearing a uniform.

Objections sounded over the radio; in his earpiece, Ward could hear some American officer shouting at the Brits to control their damn fire. Ward pretended he couldn't hear; and with the roar of so many guns it was almost true. The issue became moot before long, though- the rush of panicked civilians soon became a mob; the stream of infected became a torrent. It wasn't long before the American soldiers stationed near the front doors disappeared beneath the crowd. It wasn't like you could see them go down struggling hand to hand, or emptying that last magazine- no such theatrics as that. One moment, the men at the doors just weren't there anymore. They were gone.

The first ten shots quickly climbed towards a hundred; spent shell casings, British and American, soon littered the street. The bullpup rifle grew hot in Ward's hands; one spent magazine became three, then four. Sergeant Barber rushed over; he'd been directing the fire of men located more on the left side of the street, while Ward had taken his team of 12 off towards the right. Knowing no voice would carry very far amongst all the gunshots and screaming- and the growls of the infected- Barber just knelt beside Ward and yelled in his ear.

"We're gonna be overrun, sir!" he shouted. "The Yanks won't hold 'em and neither can we! Not this many!" Ward around him, his eyes scanning the chaos rapidly unfolding before him. A charging mob was flooding out of the medical center, and from the dismayed back-and-forth chatter of the Americans it was fast becoming impossible to distinguish infected from people. Each of Ward's commandos had enough weapons on him to wage a war on his own, but the Enfields had their limits. Suddenly spotting a group of three charging towards them, Ward snapped off a series of shots- on the fourth, the third infected fell and the Enfield jammed. The young officer swore violently. He turned to Barber, who was doing an incredible job of keeping calm in the face of rampaging chaos. Ward's mouth had gone dry as the desert; his heart was hammering so fast he feared it would explode. Hesitation now would mean his death and the deaths of all his men, or worse. So Ward took the only route left.

Keying his mike, and taking just an instant to ensure everyone was listening, Ward stood up and drew a blade from its belt-mounted sheath. Locking it in place on the hot barrel of his rifle, Ward spoke into his radio; he didn't know if the Americans could hear and he didn't care.

"Marines- fix bayonets!"

The Commandos instantly obeyed.

"Forward! CHARGE!"

Shouting out loud now and waving for his men to follow, Ward screamed a cry of rage that equaled even the howls of the infected and sprinted down the street towards them. The privates, corporals, and handful of sergeants in his troop were all shocked- they'd all heard Ward was a demon under fire; they'd even seen some of it during their night operations in Cambria. But this was unbelievable; had anyone told any of the Marines present about such an officer before the infection, the Commandos likely would have laughed it off and said it sounded too much like a bad American war movie.

No one, had such a story simply been told to them, would have believed such a man could exist. But every bit of this was real; more than thirty men ultimately saw Ward jump up, jam a bayonet on his rifle, and go charging at the infected with nothing but a jammed Enfield in his hands. Artists would paint this moment one day- Ward's Charge, the moment where twenty-four men stood up and proved that not all of Britain's best men had died saving the world from Hitler.

Sergeant Barber, older than Ward by several years and a veteran of a deployment to Iraq and to Afghanistan, didn't hesitate for an instant. He drew his own bayonet, snapped it down on his own rifle, and charged. He didn't even delay a full two seconds in following his commander into the charge. For the rest of the men, it wasn't even a question. By that moment, they'd have followed Ward and Barber anywhere. Straight into the gates of Hell even; and in a sense, that's just what they were doing. The entirety of 1 Troop, Company H, 45 Commando charged straight into the crowd flooding towards them, killing all the way, howling war-cries that threatened to drown out the yells of the panicking civilians and infected.

Ward, for his part, never noticed how rapidly his men joined him in charging. It would not surprise him to learn of it later, but he truthfully added that he would have done the same anyway, even had every Commando under his leadership stood behind the American sandbags and not moved a muscle.

He fought with every muscle in his body as he sprinted up the steps, punching and kicking, stabbing with the bayonet and swinging the stock like a club. Dozens were coming at him at once; Ward's speed, in the end, was the primary reason he lived. He never got bogged down amidst the crowd- he just cut straight through like a hot knife. The mob threatened to run him down; arms would bump his, legs would entangle him. Hands- hands from every direction it seemed, grabbed at him. And all around, snarling, growling faces with bared teeth and bloodshot eyes.

But Ward never stopped. He never even looked. At one moment, when a panicking woman grabbed onto his arm in the hopes of being pulled along, Ward spun and shot out a blow that shattered her jaw. He never did know if the woman was an infected or not. He just lashed out and kept going.

Finally, after what seemed like a 2-hour charge that ran the length of four football fields, Ward reached the top of the long, sloping flights of concrete stairs leading out and down into the street from District 1's medical center. Ward's legs burned; his lungs screamed for air. His uniform and his hands, even his face, was grimy and streaked, spattered, with blood. But he kept going. Into the building he ran, his boots nearly skidding on the amount of blood covering the floor of the stairwell. Bodies littered the floor, some in light green digitals and some in a countless variety of civilian garb. Only in bits and pieces, tiny flashes, would Ward later remember any of this. At that instant, he charged inside and up the spiraling stairs. Only upon topping the first flight, safely overlooking the set coming up from the parking garage, did Ward stop, his lungs heaving in their urgent quest for air. He turned and saw the mob, now far away and quite busy overrunning the Americans still on the street. From the look and sound of things they'd long given up selective fire. Then Ward's eyes caught a more welcome sight; his own men, some only feet behind him, were catching up.

The relief Ward felt suddenly faded; his blood ran cold.

There should have been more.

As the Commandos of 1 Troop rushed inside the medical center's stairwell and joined their commander, all filthy and breathing heavily, Ward looked among the faces. Davis, Chase, Haywood, Cygnets, Jones, and Black. About six others ultimately joined them. Ward looked around at the faces before him- these were some of his greenest and lowest-ranking men. Not a sergeant was present. Picking Chase out to be the senior of the assembled corporals, Ward said over the sound of the now-distant gunfire, "Chase. It looks to me like about twelve of you boys made it, and you've been corporal longest. We've no sergeants left. Consider yourself my second-in-command now." The men looked around at one another, exchanging uneasy looks, and groans and sighs of dismay. Twelve? That's all they had left? It just wasn't possible. They'd never lost a man in a fight. Not this troop.

Ward looked around, standing above his men on the stairs. Their faces showed all too clearly what the situation was- they were scared, but determined. They might all die before this was over, but as long as they stuck with Ward he'd get them farther than anyone else could. Ward could see the men looking to him expectantly, every man's eyes saying silently, "You've got a plan for this. Haven't you?" These Marines needed him. They needed a leader, the only one they really had left. Ward had to clear his throat before he spoke; he had to think clearly. He couldn't afford to think about how many he'd lost. He had to focus on the Marines still alive.

"We've got to get underground, lads. In a Code Red the Americans have plans to firebomb and gas the District One area. They've lost control out there; no way they'll be getting it back soon enough. Those bombs and that gas; they're coming." Without further ado, Ward worked to clear the jam in his rifle, and upon doing so began heading downstairs into the dark. Chase caught up with him, his eyes betraying his fear. "Sir- you mean go down there? That's where all those fuckers _came_ from!"

Ward, speaking softly and calmly, said, "They've all gone outside, Chase. Nobody'll be down there. Just us."

From behind them, a voice cracked a little as somebody began to speak up. That was Terry Davis; he'd managed to get in, somehow, at barely seventeen. Davis tried again and said, "T-there's a route to the streets from that parking garage."

Chase was already thinking a little more clearly; he nodded at what Davis said, and added "There's a Tube station not far from here."

Ward nodded to himself; he was going to need Chase to step up to the plate, as the Americans liked to say, if he was going to get the rest of his troop out of here. He couldn't do everything himself. Ward did not ask Chase or any of the others to lead the way down into the dark, though; that task he elected to do personally. As one of Britain's finest young officers led what was left of his Commando troop down into the black abyss beneath District One's medical centre, the steady, growling roar of Apache gunships could be heard overhead.

It was pitch black in the parking garage- some idiot had thought it a good idea to kill all of District One's lights as part of the Code Red. That same genius had not, however, thought to properly equip or train the majority of the occupying troops for fighting the infected in the dark. The Commandos had not waited for American leadership to supply "tag-along" British troops, one battalion in total, with their precious night vision goggles. The Marines had made deals, called in favours, and in a rare case or two simply stolen until they'd had all they needed. The Germans, for one, had been happy enough to provide the British commandos with NVGs. The French had happened to have some that they didn't need, and in withdrawing the majority of their forces from District One a month ago, the absence of a few pairs hadn't been noticed.

The Marines advanced slowly, cautiously, into the parking garage, advancing through the jammed-open double doors. A quick glance in the eerie green light showed the panicked crowd had nearly torn them off their hinges in shoving them open and breaking the lock. There were no infected down here, though; as Ward's men silently fanned out behind him, he signaled with one hand to show his scope was clear. Nobody was in here, but that didn't mean they could drop their guard. From now on, any conversation would be done in whispers, and whenever possible not at all. Hand signals would have to do.

The carnage this garage had just seen was evident anywhere one turned; more than ten bodies littered the floor, beaten to death by newly-infected neighbours or trampled in the rush to get out. Blood from vomiting infected lay in a few slowly-cooling pools. As he advanced further into the room, Ward found himself feeling strangely calm. He felt fear, yes; but he'd been afraid many times before. He actually felt more at ease now, with District One going to pieces around him, than he had in a crowded room of civilians in his first week in District One. This was something he _knew_ how to deal with. _This_ enemy he could fight.

As the roar of jets began to thunder overhead, Ward motioned for his men to get as far from the entrances as possible, and lie down. Lying prone, each man alone with his thoughts, the Commandos listened as the US Air Force did to the Isle of Dogs what Hitler's Luftwaffe never could.

The room shook with the explosions; the oily, sweet smell of napalm soon reached Ward's nostrils. But he thanked himself, again and again as the napalm tanks hit the ground above, tha he'd gotten his men underground so quickly. He'd lost half his men in that foolish charge, and nevermind that it was easily the best option he'd had. Ward still couldn't forgive himself for it. But as he looked around in the dark, occasionally catching the eyes of one of his frightened men, Ward's resolve strengthened. They needed him. He had to stay calm, remain strong, so that the boys he'd lost already wouldn't soon be joined by the rest.

Finally, as the biggest of the thunderous explosions hit- that one happened to incinerate 100 infected in less than 10 seconds- staying silent proved a little too much for one of the Commandos. Chase, no doubt speaking for everyone else present- Ward did not count himself out of that- called just loudly enough to hear over the sound of the firebombing, "We're gonna make it, aren't we, sir? I don't wanna die out here."

Ward didn't berate Chase for breaking silence. Right now, for just this moment at least, the infected had other problems. He whispered back, also raising his voice just enough for the Marines to hear, "Stay alert, stay with me, and you'll stay alive. I promise you, Chase. Do exactly as I tell you and you'll be fine." He paused, then added something else. "Besides, Chase… I know you lads are shitting yourselves right now. But the infected? Those buggers've forgotten how. He paused again. "That must hurt." He smiled when he heard a few nervous laughs.

Cheerfulness in adversity. Those were the words RM recruiting posters boasted of; every Royal Marine was to display that virtue first and foremost in combat. Corporal William Chase would never forget his OC making that joke as District One was engulfed in hell above and around them. Without Ward and his strange jokes, his utter refusal to give in to anything or anyone…. Every Marine with Ward that day, to a man, would say later that without him, they couldn't have imagined getting out of District One alive.


	10. Chapter 10- A Plan

**Chapter X- A Plan**

* * *

The next day or so was a lot of evasion and escape, "bugging out" as the Marines liked to say.

The losses taken in the previous night's fighting would haunt Ward forever; he could already tell every time he looked at the ones he had left. They were trained professionals, the best Her Majesty's Forces could offer, but a thousand years of training couldn't ever take the place of the kind of combat experience soldiers like Ward had. There weren't many of him anywhere. Tucked away in a second-story coffee shop, the Marines went after what few non-perishables remained with gusto. Sitting off near the windows and carefully scanning the street, Ward glanced back with amusement as Chase and Davis played a game of 'keep away' with the last remaining can of French Roast coffee in the store. When they figured out they were the only ones that really wanted it, though, the sport became less amusing. Ward was content to just sit quietly and watch; every minute any of them were still alive was a minute worth treasuring. Nobody knew how many more the Commandos were going to get.

The Marines decided it would be wise to clear the rest of the office building they'd moved into- it was always wise to have a location to retreat to if their attempt to get out of London entirely somehow went wrong. Which, considering how much had gone wrong already, would have been no surprise to Ward if it did. One 6-man team found a stairwell and crept directly to the fourth floor; Ward took the other 6 and headed for three. Shouldering his weapon- gunshots were to be avoided whenever possible, as the sound, if heard by one infected, would inevitably draw others- Ward advanced down the hallway at a low crouch, bayonet in hand. With his camo fatigues, "boonie hat", grimy face and grim expression, Ward was the picture of a commando at war. The infected might be retaking London for now, but they numbered at most a few thousand. Ward had faced millions.

Advancing silently down the hallway of the third floor, the Commandos were never seen or heard by the handful of America infantry who had taken over a handful of rooms. Tired, scared, and fighting for their lives, these men had no idea what their commanders were doing, or if there were even any commanders left. Their loose order and collective unity mostly through fear of the infected reminded Ward too much of the Army soldiers he'd served alongside north of Manchester. Perhaps a leader or two would emerge among them- someone would have to if these men planned on staying alive. As Ward signaled with a few quick hand motions for a flashbang grenade to be tossed into each room and a fast infiltration to be made, he thought of the stories he'd read as a boy of the American defeat at Little Big Horn. Complacent, arrogant, and sure he could never be defeated by such a less intelligent and 'inferior' foe, the US Army had allowed that egocentric clown George Custer to get dozens of perfectly good men killed along with himself. The connection certainly fit here.

A trio of sudden, deafening bangs and bright flashes; the Americans, bewildered and disoriented, never stood a chance. The Commandos rushed in, and each had a blade to an American's neck within seconds. The Marines were outnumbered, but they had a number of key advantages the American paratroopers didn't- better preparation for the kind of combat they were now facing, coordination, and Cameron Ward as their commander. By the time the few Americans not immediately captured made any sort of recovery, their own comrades were yelling for them not to shoot. Ward, holding one man solidly in place, looked daggers at the men left standing, daring them to try something. It was quite a surprise to him, and all the other Marines present, when a sergeant in the group recognized Ward and lowered his weapon.

Cautiously, he said, "Hey… you've got a plan for this, man. Haven't you?"

Private Davis cut his eyes towards Ward, asking of they ought to release their hostages. Calling out "Men, it's all right!", Ward let the Americans go again. Soon both sides gathered in a deserted meeting room, the Commandos flanking Ward and looking ready to resume hostilities at any time. These 'regulars', even airborne troops, had proven themselves unable to effectively deal with the infected during the first outbreak- and those, at least, had been British soldiers.

These were Americans, and Ward had no idea what they would do next. It was their greatest strength and worst fault at the same time; right now, pockets of abandoned German, French, American, British and even a few Irish soldiers were finding safe places in deserted London and trying to stay alive. Cut off, abandoned, and all-too-often simply fired at on sight by the American-dominated coalition forces, the surviving foot soldiers occupying London were all having to do things on their own.

Like so many Americans just receiving their trial-by-fire with the infected, this group- about nine in all- unless they calmed down and got some kind of plan in their heads, the fact that they'd escaped the initial massacre and the subsequent firebombing would make little difference.

Ward talked with the sergeant- the highest-ranking of the bunch, it seemed- for a time, addressing his squad as well. It was good to see the Americans actually seemed to be listening; it was better to see their complacent, arrogant belief that the infection could never return was gone. This was real war, a new breed only a handful of people knew firsthand. One of them was standing right there in that meeting room. But there was little time to waste; Ward could only spare a few minutes to tell these soldiers what they'd need to know. He summed it up thus: "Shoot only when you have to, be alert every second of the day, and when you kill, do it without hesitation, compassion, or remorse. The infected have no pity; if you're going to survive against them, you'll need to be the same way."

The Commandos stayed in the building for another handful of hours, working with the squad of American paratroopers to provide security for the building and better prepare it for future use as a safe area, disabling the elevators by cutting the cables and piling all but one of the staircases with debris to make them unusable. Ward had his men work in shifts, giving some a chance to catch up on some badly-needed sleep. The young lieutenant passed on the opportunity himself; he had too much to do.

Ward kept an eye on the Americans' leader, Sergeant Harry Colburn, who was roughly the same age as he was but vastly less experienced in dealing with the Rage virus. Colburn was a smart man and determined to be a good leader; his troops were visibly less panicked after just a few hours of working alongside the Royal Marines and implementing their advice.

More important to Lieutenant Ward, however, was his own second-in-command, Corporal Chase. He'd been with D Troop of A Company, 45 Commando since the Cumbria Conflict, and had been made Corporal after the clearing of London and the establishment of District One in the Isle of Dogs. He was almost a mirror-image of what Ward must surely have been, some 28 weeks ago. A good Marine, but scared and lost. Only his determination to continue, his refusal to give in to the panic threatening to overtake him, kept Chase going… but that stubborn refusal to surrender had kept Ward going at Manchester. He understood the value of such grim determination well.

Ward had confidence in the junior NCO, and he made a point of showing it, often leaving Chase in charge of the second floor while he worked with the men on the third. He also directly told Chase that he didn't give a damn how the work he needed done was carried out, just so long as it was finished on time and in full. The Americans' General Patton had said something about that once, and Ward had been inclined to agree.

Sometime around noon, Ward decided it was time to move. The city had grown eerily quiet; packs of infected could be heard snarling off in the distance and the sounds of jets, helicopters, tanks and small arms fire could be noticed now and then. But for whatever reason, it was the overall quiet that bothered Ward the most. He disliked the idea of staying in one place for very long; District One had already been firebombed, and given how badly American command had to still be shitting themselves over this, Ward didn't put it past them to do it again to the whole city. Gas attacks were a possibility, too- Ward had told Chase to make sure all the men had their gas masks at the ready.

No, the best thing to do now was move on. The American paratroopers in this building could stay if they liked; when asked, though, he refused to allow them to follow. "We're commandos; we're trained to move on our own, and a small unit will be harder for the infected to notice. You men will need to find your own way out of here." Ward's words had been hard, but fair. He held nothing against Sergeant Colburn or his men, but that's how it had to be. He would not risk the lives of his own Marines by allowing tag-alongs of any kind. Colburn didn't seem to hold any grudges, though. As the Commandos moved back down on the first floor, watching the street and checking their weapons one more time in the debris-strewn office building's lobby, Colburn emerged from the darkness of the one usable stairwell and approached the Marine lieutenant.

Holding his rifle in one hand, Colburn held a pen and piece of paper in the other. Ward looked at him curiously.

"Hey, LT- you mind writing down your name, rank and unit for me? You did my guys a real favour just now. They're all sure we're gonna make it out of here now."

Ward shrugged a little, snapping the bolt forward on his L85. "So? Looks to me like you've got the situation well in hand."

Colburn seemed sure of what he was thinking, but having difficulty finding the words. "Look, I'm sorry command didn't listen to you guys before. I just wanna make sure they don't forget you this time. I want my guys' families to know who saved their asses today."

Spoken bluntly and honestly; Ward couldn't help but smile. He gave Sergeant Colburn the information he wanted, and added his own farewell. "It's been real nice working with you, Sergeant."

Colburn nodded, smiling under his goggles and Kevlar helmet. "Likewise." The two men shook hands, then Colburn turned and headed back upstairs.

Ward turned to Chase, who was standing in the centre of the lobby, bayonet fixed on his L85's barrel. "Right, Corporal- let's get going." Moments later the Marines' point-man emerged cautiously onto the street, and after giving the others the all-clear, slowly led the way as the small, twelve-man unit made their way down the street. A few blocks away, they knew, there was an entrance to the London Underground.

With gas attacks, firebombing, tanks and helicopters all a possibility- not to mention the thousands of infected- the best place to be for the next day or so was underground. The Commandos all had night vision on the scopes of their rifles, and were well-trained in fighting in the dark. They'd be safe underground, and odds were the infected would never find them in the depths of the Underground anyway. Nonetheless, Ward felt more than nervous as he led his men down the empty, debris-strewn streets of London. Things had gone plenty wrong already. Who was he to be so certain they wouldn't find a way to get worse?

It was easy enough to see in the higher areas of the Underground, the many long flights of stairs that led further and further below street level. Once Ward and his Marines reached the long-ago-stopped escalators, though, it was a different story. Even at a glance, going underground no longer looked quite so safe. "I can see bodies, OC," Chase said, scanning the bottom of the long, sloping escalator steps with his rifle's scope. "They've been here since the beginning, just about- just a lot of bones, clothes, and shit they were trying to take with 'em."

None of the men looked absolutely thrilled at the idea of going underground- everyone had heard a story or two about the mass panic that had brought carnage to every major city in England, Wales and Scotland during the infection. The mass transit points like the Underground, railways, and airports had gotten the very worst of it, with stories of ten thousand people jamming Heathrow Airport and far less than five thousand ever getting out. But everybody was dead now; the Underground, the rail stations, everything. Not one train moved on the rails anymore, not in the Underground or anywhere else. They stood still and silent in the dark. It was pitch-black down there; you could barely see a thing. Beyond the first fifty feet or so, the sun's light from the entrance could not go any farther. Unless you had night vision, you were on your own.

But there wasn't any way around it- the hell breaking loose on the surface had the worst of both worlds, with infected and the NATO battle group tearing into one another with equal ferocity. And scattered patrols and units from District One weren't being spared; presumed as the enemy on sight, they were hardly any better off if they reached some of the surrounding area's units than the infected.

Ward made his decision; motioning for everyone to keep silent, he led his men down into the dark. Better to face the darkness and whatever unknown fears lay behind it than remain to be destroyed by the dangers he knew and saw in the light.

The Underground had been the scene of a slaughter.

Ward had known this going in, and every one of the twelve men he had left had heard the stories of the carnage that swept through London's "subway" system. People had been in a kind of panic never seen before in British history; men and women murdered each other just feet from infected mobs, driven mad by the hope, the need, to get themselves and their families on board an airliner, a bus, a train on the surface or one on the Underground. Anything. Some even made it, hundreds altogether before the last trains made their run north to Manchester, flights out of infected areas were suspended, and the Underground trains made their last runs before stopping. One lucky group, at least another hundred all told, escaped on the last Underground train to make a run to France under the Channel Tunnel, or Chunnel, before the French Army moved in and tore the tracks up halfway, stationing two tanks and an infantry platoon at the French end of the tunnel system.

Yes, a surprising many had made it to safety using planes, trains, or automobiles. Many people had gotten lucky and even found a way to safety on foot; one burly Scotsman was reported to have survived a two-week journey all the way back up to the highlands of Scotland that were his home, his only transportation a bicycle and his only weapon a machete.

Those were the lucky ones, though. Ward was coldly reminded every time he looked through his scope and saw the bodies covering the floor that this lot hadn't been. They were the unlucky ones, and the coroner's report had estimated thirty million dead or infected, just in the first 28 days. The number echoed in Ward's mind now, as he made his way through the crypt that had once been an Underground train station.

Thirty million, out of a pre-outbreak population of fifty-six million. How could you even visualize that many dead, let alone deal with it? How could you even comprehend what absolute devastation that meant, how close Britons now stood to extinction?

Thirty _million_.

How many skeletons still wearing their clothes now covered the tiled floors of the London Underground- not just in this station, but altogether? Hundreds. It had to be. Some bodies Ward could see, from the placement of the luggage beside them, had clearly known the trains were no longer running, but hoped to make it down here anyway. Ward could see the panicked people talking, the desperate light of hope glinting in some faces as the word spread: it's safe underground. Or at the very least, safer. Maybe it might have been had the first hundred made sure the next hundred were armed and prepared, had those masses of refugees fleeing to the subterranean world managed to improvise a chain of command and organize a determined defense.

Maybe that would have worked. But obviously, no such good luck had come to visit these refugees, or any group that fled to the Underground stations throughout London and hid. The infected had followed them in, perhaps just a few dozen attacking at first, and maybe that the luckier and more organized groups of survivors had managed to hold off. But infected would always gather where more attacked; one infected a mile from another would hear a yell or a growl, come running and you'd have two. If you had twenty in earshot of the first, you'd have twenty more coming your way by the time killed the first one. And if you had _two hundred_ within earshot of the first infected coming at you…

Ward shuddered. It was bad enough looking through the L85's scope with the night setting on, seeing everything washed in that eerie pale green light. Writing the obituaries of a hundred-plus dead refugees didn't make anything better.

Moving quietly through the dark, Ward gained confidence as his eyes adjusted and the NVG setting of the scope kept doing its job. He and Chase directed the Marines using only hand signals- sound echoed crazily down here, and the acoustics of all those tiled floors and walls could drive you mad. That meant instantly coming under attack if even a single infected heard them; even one wrong sound would be broadcast throughout the Underground, and even infected above-ground might hear them if it was loud enough.

In spite of the situation's deadly seriousness, Ward's sharp features formed an ironic smile in the dark of the Underground. Moments ago, he'd been doing just the very thing he warned Royal Marine recruits against while overseeing Selection in Australia: writing the obituaries of the dead. When you saw an infected in a barrister's suit, or a skeletal mother on the floor of a train station with her arms still wrapped around an equally skeletal child, you couldn't help but wonder. Your mind would start rewinding the clock, and that was when you'd punch out yourself and, dead or infected, leave someone wondering what had happened to you.

Ward could still hear himself yelling at those boys and a few grizzled men, shouting at them as they crawled a full five hundred yards through mud and under barbed wire with the drill instructors and actors portraying infected- very convincingly- all around them. "Do not write their bloody obituary!" Ward had shouted. "Stop even a second to write their story, and someone will soon be writing yours." It was quite funny, in spite of how absolutely grim everything was around him, that Ward had just done what he'd told the next generation of Royal Marines not to do.

Some part of his amusement must have showed, because Ward spotted a couple of his grimy-faced Marines looking strangely at him in the dark. Corporal Chase looked at him curiously, as if to say, What's so funny?

Ward just shook his head and moved up to take point as the thirteen Marines moved towards the stopped train sitting in the Underground. Enough daylight shone through the tunnel's opposing ends that the NVG's would have been unneeded, had even a few lights been on. But there was too much dark; too many shadows. One mistake could get all the men killed down here.

Finally, the Marines reached the stopped Underground train and swept each of its cars; a surprising number were completely empty, and the doors on one side still stood open. Moving his men into the two closest cars to where they'd come, Ward whispered just a few words and set his men on 50% watch. A few of them, at least, would need to get some sleep. Scanning the train station around him, his rifle's scope sweeping over piles of trash and more than a few bodies, Ward started a bit as he felt a hand set gently on his shoulder. Even so, he had to remind himself not to turn his rifle with him as he turned to face the person; an infected would not have politely gotten his attention. One of them would have snarled and grabbed.

It was Corporal Chase, who had come up from the second car. His dark brown hair looked black in the dark, as did his eyes, an identical shade of brown. His face was stoic under his emerald green beret, but there was also the light of concern in his eyes. He knew as well as his OC that Cameron Ward hadn't slept since the outbreak had begun again, now almost a full day ago. "Try to get some sleep, sir," Chase whispered. Ward thought about refusing, or arguing with the corporal. But Chase had a point.

Swapping places with Chase, Ward lay down on the carpeted floor, muttering a word of thanks to the only ranking enlisted man he had left. At first he wondered if he'd have trouble getting to sleep, but the instant his pulse slowed a little, Ward was out like a light. He dreamed- what else?- of the infected. Cameron wondered if those bloody-faced, screaming mad sons of bitches would ever get out of his head. He wondered if he'd ever stop fighting the Battle of Manchester. He wondered if the blood would ever come off his hands.


	11. Chapter 11- Finding Harris

**Chapter XI- Finding Harris**

* * *

Heavy thuds of gunfire; the roar of rotor blades up above, and the scream of rubber on pavement. Hands set on Ward's shoulders, shaking him awake. "Aw, what the fuck!" Ward cursed, remembering a little late he needed to keep his voice close to silent. Private Davis was over him, his eyes wide and alert. "We heard something in the tunnels, sir," he whispered. "Not just that noise up there."

Ward glanced at his watch; had he been on a sunny beach on Spain, he'd have let loose a stream of profanity that would have shocked his mother into a coma. But he was underground in fucking London, with war and death and shit all around him. So he didn't say anything.

_Fifty-six minutes_, Ward thought. _I've been asleep for fifty-six fucking minutes_.

Then, sitting up, Ward spotted a shadow on the wall; someone was coming in from the sunny end of the tunnel. Rolling to his feet, Ward had his rifle in his hands and motioned everyone down in one movement. The Marines all went absolutely still, only their eyes and darkened, grimy faces visible above the windowsills of the Underground train. No shots were to be fired; not unless they absolutely had to. Every one of Cameron Ward's men knew that if a weapon was fired, every fucker in earshot would be headed their way.

Suddenly a hand tapped on his right shoulder, and Ward turned to see Private Hanlon crouched low at the other side of the door to the second car. His eyes were wide with fear, and a quick glance to where he was pointing- back at the second train car- showed the men keeping very calm, very quiet, and absolutely still. Then Ward's breath froze in his chest as he saw.

An infected was standing right outside the windows of the second car, breathing hard and staring around. With a shock, Ward recognized the face despite the faded light. It was Donald Harris.

There was blood all down his face, and his hands and eyes were coated in red. The former District One caretaker was staring into the cars, gazing with animal curiosity at the green-and-earth-coloured lumps he could vaguely discern inside. What were those? Were those piles of clothing, or the enemy? Were they to be ignored, or destroyed?

Shouts off towards the stairs Ward and his men had descended; abruptly Harris' eyes turned in that direction. For a time, as the frightened voices of Major Scarlett Ross, Tammy and Andy Harris echoed through the station, both Patient Zero of the second outbreak of the Rage Virus and a team of Royal Marines stood and crouched barely five feet from one another. Both looked, and both listened, as Major Ross did her best to guide Tammy and Andy through the dark.

No noise discipline, Ward cursed silently. No noise discipline at all. It would be a wonder if every bloody infected in London didn't know those three were here now. He recognized all their voices, and knew in the same instant that there was probably nothing he could do to save them. Suddenly, with a low, feral growl, Donald Harris darted off into the blackened depths of the train station, his eyes still shooting glances at the source of the echoing noise as he moved away.

My God, Ward thought as he realised, the son of a bitch is going to wait for them.

This wasn't good. If the Rage Virus had somehow mutated this second time around, if it had been in some way changed by its being carried in the bloodstream of a passive carrier, then it had given at least one infected the ability to learn. If even one infected was now able to set basic ambushes and think enough to lie in wait, that had to mean he was learning. If an infected could learn, he could use tactics. If the infected started using tactics, that meant they could think. And if they could think…

For several minutes the maddening alteration of noise echoes and total silence went on. One of the children or Major Ross would say something; most of the time it was too distorted to make out. In any case, they were trying to find their way through the dark; that much was obvious.

A series of loud snapping noises, the crunching of bones; somebody had tripped and fallen on a lot of bodies. What fun.

One way or another, Andy must have gotten separated from Ross and Tammy, because all of a sudden they were yelling his name a lot. Why not even the Major could think to shut the hell up was a complete mystery to the Marines. Then came a sound with which they were all coming to be quite familiar: the angry, guttural snarl of an infected on the attack. The yells went on, accompanied by ugly wet smacking sounds and a woman's voice, crying out and getting weaker all the time. Then a scream, probably Tammy: "Scarlett!"

Well, Ward thought with surprising calm, that's one more obituary for the morning papers.

Abruptly, a minute or two later, a frightened, lonely voice cried out in the dark: "Andy! Where are you?"

Ward prayed the lad would have the sense not to answer.

As chance would have it, either out of fear- that seemed to cause a person to lose his voice very often, even at times when speaking would be a good thing- or simply being absolutely lost, Andy did not answer his sister. He was now up on one side of the station platform, wandering the length of the train. As he came close to the two cars where the Marines were hiding, a few of Ward's men looked at him questioningly. Corporal Chase crawled up to him, pointing and with a few key hand gestures asking, "Can we go get him?"

Ward shook his head, as much as he hated to do it. If he sent even one man out of the train now, with at least one infected prowling in the dark, it could mean revealing the whole unit's position. If Andy panicked and made any noise when the Marines moved to retrieve him, he would quite possibly doom them all.

No. There was nothing for it but to wait. When they saw Donald Harris again, relocated him once more, maybe then a move could be made. It seemed like he was the only one here… for now. Maybe for these two children, taking the risk of firing off a shot would be worth it. But Ward had his troop to consider. It would be worth saving those two children, but only if it didn't mean dying beside them in the effort. This war, or whatever it was, already had enough dead heroes for the end of time.

Into the dead silence of the Underground station, Andy, alone and very afraid, made an understandable but unforgivable mistake. He started calling out for his sister, announcing his location to anyone within earshot, not just Tammy Harris.

A dark shape darted out from the darkness on one side of the station platform, jumped down, ran across the rails between two of the cars, and climbed up on the platform about fifteen feet from Andy. The boy obviously had no idea what was going on, or what he was supposed to do; his face was written with fear, and he was very lost.

The dark shape, hunched over but still taller than Andy by several feet, growled, much more like a dog than a man. Even after so many close-up encounters with the infected he had long ago lost count, Ward still felt a chill in his blood when he heard and saw these reminders of the animal-like nature of the infected. They looked like people, used to be people, but now were such unnatural, horrid beasts that even rats fled their presence in a panic.

Andy turned. The shadows were playing tricks, and he could only make out the human-like shape. "Tam?" he asked hopefully, but also very much in doubt.

The dark shape charged. "Grraaaagh!" it yelled.

Now Ward did speak. "Oh, shit," he said. To Corporal Chase, he said, "Stay down and cover me." He bolted for the open doors at the end of the second car, his rifle up. Something had to be done, and fast.

Ward sprinted out onto the platform, dropped into a kneeling position. Donald Harris had tackled his son and was over him on all fours, growling and spewing bloody saliva from his mouth.

The Marine lieutenant took not even a second's time steadying his aim; it was now or never.

Clack! The L85's bolt shot forward and jammed the weapon.

For just an instant, the infected caretaker's head whipped back as he heard the metallic sound. His eyes met the young officer's, and Ward felt scared facing an infected for the first time in ages. Actually, it had only been a few months… which said a lot about how slow time had passed for anybody fighting on the front.

But for some reason, Donald Harris would not allow himself to be distracted. His head snapped back to stare down at the panicked, struggling Andy.

Ward whipped out his bayonet and snapped it into place on the L85's barrel for the second time since the fighting had started again. He wasn't thinking, only doing. Fight, fight, fight. Let the Army set up roadblocks; Commandos make do and beat the infected at their own game.

In the subway cars, the men were furiously arguing in whispers.

"He's fucking right there; just fucking shoot 'im!"

"There could be a hundred infected right outside! Fire discipline!"

"Bollocks! I can't get a shot past the leftenant anyway!"

Cameron Ward sprinted forward, crossing the twenty feet between him and the two members of the Harris family in less than five seconds. But five seconds in combat may as well be five years. Donald Harris had the time he needed.

His head snaked down in one blinding-quick movement, and with an absolutely sickening crunch he bit down on Andy's right arm. Hard.

Andy began his struggle anew, flailing about and letting loose a shriek of pain that would never stop echoing in Cameron Ward's mind. He screamed and thrashed; Andy had never known such pain, or such fear. He thought he was going to die.

Then there was a flurry of movement over him; a blurred mass of earth-coloured combats swept his angry, red-eyed father away. Cameron Ward flipped his rifle around as he brought Donald Harris down, and in one lightning-fast movement raised it high over the caretaker and brought it down on his face.

The infected man growled and struggled ferociously, but the young officer could not be stopped. Not that day. Fighting for Andy Harris, he would have taken down a tank on foot… something his grandfather really did.

Cameron Ward didn't think about anything he was doing; there was no time for that. He simply slammed the L85's stock home, smashing the infected caretaker's face again and again until it ceased to be recognizable. Donald Harris fought back with every ounce of strength in his body; at least he did, until the stock of an assault rifle from the Royal Small Arms Factory, Enfield came down dead-center on his nose and smashed a sliver of bone into his brain.

The first infected of the second outbreak abruptly ceased his struggles.


	12. Chapter 12- Marching to Parliament

**Chapter XII- Marching to Parliament**

* * *

Tammy Harris rushed out onto the station platform where the struggle had just taken place; she threw herself flat as she saw she was facing the barrels of more than ten very surprised Royal Marines. A Marine with two stripes on his arms waved her forward; another was dropping his jammed Enfield, eying it warily. The weapon's stock was coated with blood.

She saw Andy, who was sitting up and gingerly holding his arm. "Andy!" she cried, almost sobbing in relief. He was alive; her brother was alive! But as she ran forward, she stopped short.

Recognizing him by his clothes and hair- not his face; there was hardly a face left- Tammy Harris saw the body on the platform and recognized it. Her father had joined the infected, attacked his own son… and now he was dead. Tammy dropped the M4 rifle she'd been holding; she'd recovered it from where Major Ross had fallen, but she didn't want it anymore.

Her brother was sitting upright, very quiet and still. Tammy knelt, and the two locked eyes.

"Tam…" Andy asked quietly, "Am I one of them?"

Tammy Harris locked eyes with her brother, observing the almost blue-moon rarity of his one blue left iris and the brown right one. Suddenly Tammy gasped; she had to in order to hold back a scream.

The veins in the whites of Andy's eyes were bleeding red.

Suddenly, Tammy Harris decided to lie. She had no idea why she was doing it; only that she had to. If she told the soldiers around them, the Marines would kill them both. She had to lie; there was no other way. She had to save her brother. As calmly as she could, Tammy said quietly, "No."

Behind her, though, one young man had observed all this, and in truth it was already too late. But Cameron Ward was a kind young man; as a lad in school, he'd been quiet and often unassuming, but he got into many scraps with other, often bigger students who thought it amusing to pick on the weak. Bullies at the primary and secondary school Cameron attended had soon learned it was best to make sure Cameron Ward wasn't around before they tried something. And even then, if the sandy-blonde haired boy heard about it there'd be hell to pay. He came home with a black eye or split lip many days, but when his parents heard about why, they could do little other than be proud. It was what the family was all about.

Cameron Ward was a kind young man; this was what all this amounted to. He wasn't about to state the bluntness of the truth; not this time. He acted like he'd seen and heard nothing out of order, and motioned for his men to keep quiet when neither of the Harris siblings were looking. The Marines all felt very sad. They knew what was coming. They were good soldiers, though, and well-trained to obey an officer's orders. They kept silent, busying themselves with watching all angles of approach to the platform.

Ward had handled American firearms before; Royal Marines always learned to shoot an American M-16 and French FAMAS in addition to their own L85 rifle. You never knew when you might be called on to use another weapon besides the one you'd been issued, and at least the M-16 and FAMAS came from a friendly country- sort of- and used the same 5.56mm ammunition. Cameron Ward checked the rifle's dust cover; it was open. He emptied the magazine from his L85, stripping the bullets out of it and stuffing them away in a pouch.

Then Ward motioned to the light at the end of the tunnel; at one end the rails went up, climbing out until the train would ride on elevated rails to some other section of London. Hopefully to a place farther from the Isle of Dogs and District One. "Let's go, lads," he said softly, and the Marines formed a protective circle around the two civilian as their commander again took point. He was a good officer; all of them had long ago agreed on that. He was a Bootneck to the core, the personification of the English warrior spirit. Cameron Ward took the idea of disregarding comfort, convenience and even safety as a rule. It was what he did, whenever his men or the people he had joined the Marines to protect were in danger. But even so, as committed as Cameron was, he shrunk from what was coming next. He hated himself for knowing he had no choice in what he was about to do.

They marched on for some time that day, keeping low and out of sight. Eventually Tammy heard Lieutenant Ward and his second, Corporal Chase, talking about Westminster Bridge, just down the street from Parliament itself. They were going to blow up the bridge.

"Come on, you two," a grinning Marine with the nametag HANLON said when Tammy and Andy had paused during the all-day marching, so tired they could hardly think. And these men were carrying well over 70 kilograms of gear on their backs! They cracked jokes now and then, boasting of how many kills they could get alone given such-and-such a weapon. For the most part, everyone kept quiet, but the Commandos seemed ironically serious in their determination to keep up good cheer.

They called the long-distance, all but non-stop marching "yomping", and both Harris siblings wondered what the hell that meant. Seeing the blank looks on their faces, Corporal Chase had laughed as they paused for water, each of the men drinking from their canteens and two giving a spare one to Andy and Tammy. "It means Your Own Marching Pace," Chase said. "The Corps is famous for it. We can march a hundred miles in, oh, two or three days. Maybe one if we really had to." Andy looked at the soldiers in wonder. Their ability to endure in the face of the most hopeless, absolutely chaotic situations was just amazing.

By the time the sun began shining amber as it started to sink below the horizon, they were sitting on the front steps of Parliament.


	13. Chapter 13- The Love of War

**Chapter XIII- The Love of War**

* * *

"**I don't think we'll ever again see another family produce sons quite like the Ward brothers. That three siblings, in the same generation of the same family, were gifted with such intelligence, talent and courage is incredible. That they had such unbreakable resolve is no less than half the reason we are still writing British history."**

**-Imperial War Museum curator David Camden, in his 2055 best-seller "**_**The Fighting Wards**_**"**

* * *

The area was completely deserted; somehow or another, the thousands of infected had either already passed through or hadn't reached the area yet. There was gunfire off in the distance almost every minute, even now. Gunships would roar high overhead, and a few times thunder rumbled. Andy and Tammy had looked up at the sky curiously; there were hardly any clouds. But Chase had just looked at them: "Tanks."

The men took food out of their packs, taking advantage of the pause to catch up on some much-missed intaking of calories. At one meal a day, each man could stretch what he carried for about a week. After that they'd have to improvise some more.

"You think God is punishing this country, Chase?" Ward spoke quietly, calmly; the thought came to him as he watched the sun shining amber through the smoke still rising from District One.

Chase looked at his commander, shocked. "Why would that be the reason? Why would God have done… all of this?"

"He allowed it to happen," Ward said, still in that calm voice. "He must have had a reason."

The two sat silently on the steps of Parliament for a minute or two, watching those men on guard scan the streets and bridge warily, and those taking time to eat sharing what little they had with the two children. Private Ford, who was the troop's medic if anybody could be called that, was re-bandaging Andy's bitten arm, telling the lad how lucky he was that he was immune, thanks to his mother.

It was amazing how well Ford made the lie sound like it wasn't.

"You remember what Churchill said about war, back in the first Great War?" Ward said, breaking the silence.

Chase nodded; he'd read up on Churchill in school, written a paper or two about him in fact. Even today he was revered, almost universally admired as the greatest Briton in history. It made Chase's heart ache to think of how badly Winston Churchill's beloved England needed him now.

Ward went on, "I remember reading what he wrote in that letter to… somebody. Something about 'I think a great curse should rest on me, because I love this war. I know it's smashing the lives of thousands of people every second. And yet- I can't help it- I enjoy every second of it."

Ward looked at the corporal beside him. "That's why I think God is punishing us sometimes, Chase. Churchill loved a damn good war, and we called him the greatest Briton in history. We're good at wars; we've liked going off and kicking somebody's arse just to show we can long before the Americans got to _thinking_ they'd copyrighted the idea."

Chase laughed a little at that last part. "All very true, I guess."

"That's not all, though," Ward said, turning serious again. "When I signed up, you know what I told the doctor giving me my exams? I said I wanted to fight in a war because I was afraid Britain was running out of them. The doctor? He just gave me this look. Said, 'Come on, son. You will have all the war you want."

Ward paused; he was having a hard time finding the words. "I think God must be resting a curse of His own on me, too, Chase. Look at me. I'm better at fighting this kind of war, fighting this fucking virus, than fucking anyone."

"I never told anybody, but… when I was up there, up to my bloody neck in infected at Manchester… I was having the time of my life. Never did I feel such a bloody rush. I hate this killing, this fucking war… but I'm just so goddamn good at it."

Chase cleared his throat; he wasn't sure of what to say. Then his eyes grew moist when they rested on the two children, so sure the Marines would keep them safe they almost looked happy. The secret had been kept, and they were going to make it out of here. What was there to worry about?

Finally Ward got up and walked away, the M4 clutched in one hand. Time to get things moving.

"Privates Ford, Hanlon, and I are going to plant the charges on Westminster Bridge in about ten minutes," Ward told the men once Chase had them all gathered. "Until then I want the rest of you to scout down the street and take up positions. Go as far as you can and still be in sight, but don't go far enough that you can't run the hell back here in a hurry."

The men soon headed off, making sure the deserted streets in front of Parliament stayed that way. All of them knew, or had at least guessed, that blowing up the bridge near the former centre of British government served two purposes. One of them was stalling the infected from advancing across the river in this direction.

The strength division made little sense; it was 10 men one way and 3 the other. But some things you didn't want too many of the men to see. Corporal Chase would have gladly helped cover the bridge and rig it with explosives. He might have even helped Ward do what needed to be done. But Cameron Ward had gotten so used to sacrificing on the behalf of others, in the name of the greater good, that one more hardly bothered him anymore. And while this was different, and pained Ward immensely, it would be done. The Rage Virus had to be killed, along with everyone who carried it. Carrier, or not.

Ward didn't send Chase with the rest of the men just because they needed a man with rank keeping them disciplined. He did it because Chase while Trevor Chase was a fine Marine and well on his way to becoming a good leader, he was all but shitting himself. He hadn't killed kids before, and it would have hurt the unit as a whole if Ward had asked him to do something like this. Even Private Ford and Private Hanlon were just here to get the bridge set up. They would be facing the other direction when… when the moment came.

Tammy and Andy watched, fascinated, as the three Marines took perhaps five minutes rappelling off the side of Westminster Bridge and rigging C4 charges to its central foundations. It was a hell of a shame to do such harm to so beautiful a bridge. But it was what needed to happen.

The sun was shining a beautiful amber on the horizon, gleaming off the surface of the river and a few abandoned boats, when Lieutenant Cameron Ward of the Royal Marines told Private Ford and Private Hanlon to go take a smoke break, facing the side of the bridge that stood across the river from Parliament. The two men looked a little ill, but they nodded and left. They, too, were glad not to have to be the ones having to do this. The men had all heard Cameron Ward talk about the infection, both on the news with talk show hosts and in briefings with his troop. Cameron Ward knew the infection very personally, and had never stopped repeating that it had to be burned, shot, bombed, gassed, and blasted from any place that it was found. Shoot the infected and burn the bodies to ash, always. No excuses, no exceptions. To hell with finding a cure.

The Rage Virus was too volatile for that; what chance would Scarlett Ross have had if the Rage Virus broke out in France? Even if on day one of an outbreak on the Continent she had a cure and millions of samples of it, how would it be distributed? Would she have men tackle and restrain every single infected, inject them with syringes? The logistics of it would be a mess, and the actual implementation of it was impossible. Cameron Ward knew there could be no cure… except killing the Rage Virus everywhere and anywhere it was found.

Cameron stood at the stone guardrail at the centre of the bridge, looking out into the sunset as Tammy and Andy stood beside him. A tear rolled down his face unexpectedly, so suddenly Ward had no chance to wipe it away before they saw.

"What happened to your brother, sir? The news never said." Andy was strangely calm, and yet curious. Briefly Ward was nervous; did the lad somehow know what was happening?

If Andy did, he'd obviously made his peace with it. He just looked up at the young officer, at this war hero that all of Britain was coming to love and admire. Andy recalled hearing one of the many times Churchill was quoted in school, something he said about the Royal Air Force and their Spitfire and Hurricane pilots, those young men who'd given their all to shield Britain from Hitler's Luftwaffe. "Never in the field of human conflict have so many owed so much to so few." Andy thought Cameron Ward was the modern personification of those words.

"I have two brothers, Andy," Cameron said, smiling a little. "One commands the _HMS Vanguard; _David commands one of Britain's ballistic missile submarines. His boat carries a set of the Letters of Last Resort."

"My other brother, the one I told you about…" Cameron halted. He shook his head, his eyes welling with tears. Even now talking about Sam hurt. But Andy deserved to know; he had earned having that question answered, that at the very least. So Cameron continued, "Sam died at the Duke of York's. He and forty-nine of his classmates barricaded themselves in the school, then started blasting American rock music on loudspeakers once the infected started entering Kent. They held off the infected for five days, and God alone knows how many got away because so many of the infected came at them instead of the evacuation points."

Cameron spoke again, his words flat; he had to detach himself to say it at all. Fifty cadets against hundreds of infected. Fifty cadets, among them his little brother. "Sam and the others made a suicide pact. When the defenses at the Duke of York's began to fall, they retreated and formed a British Square; stalled the infected another ten minutes. Then they ran down to their last rounds and… shot themselves." Cameron paused, unsure of how to go on. "They gave him the GC."

Andy and Tammy stared; they were simply amazed. They couldn't find any words; no words seemed enough. No spoken praise would ever be adequate. Distantly it occurred to Andy that Britain might need a long time to recover from this, indeed- he'd always heard old blokes saying the country had been going downhill ever since so many of her finest men got killed off in the two Great Wars. Now, with the Rage Virus and so many millions of dead… how many heroes were left? Once this was all over, _finally_ over, how many would be left who'd be willing to sacrifice the way the three Ward brothers had?

But Cameron had a feeling it wasn't his job to worry about that, not his role in things to ask what the tomorrow of British history would be like. What his job was, the destiny he'd been given… was to make sure there _was_ a tomorrow.

Andy spoke; he felt a strange need to. Like… if he didn't say what was on his mind now, he might never get to. Wasn't often you got to talk to living legends, like Cameron Ward.

"He's a hero," Andy said quietly. "I think I'd have liked him a lot."

Cameron's handsome features lit into a smile, and he set a hand on Andy's shoulder. "Thank you."

For another minute or so the three stood on the bridge, gazing off into the sunset. Cameron quietly took his sidearm out of its holster, checking to see if it was loaded. It was. He thumbed the safety off and set his finger on the trigger.

Andy and Tammy, talking a little about the march North the Marines were planning, never noticed.

Then Cameron said softly to the both of them, "Andy, Tammy… do you think God forgives us- soldiers like me, I mean- for the things we have to do?" Cameron's voice took on a hint of urgency, like God was going to whisper the answer in the children's ears, and Cameron desperately needed to know. "Do you think He knows why soldiers do what we do?"

Andy nodded, completely sure of himself. He couldn't say quite why… but he was. "He does. I'm sure he does. Soldiers like you are good people, sir."

"God sees how it really is," Tammy said. "That's what I've always thought."

Cameron wanted to cry. In fact, he was starting to. Another minute with these two kids and he'd crack up, lose his will to do what anybody could have told him had to happen. So much of his hope in the future, so much of his reason for fighting, was summed up in the first two children to return to Britain since the outbreak. Cameron just hoped they wouldn't end up being the last.

Pointing off into the sunset, into that beautiful amber glow off the water, Cameron said, "You know, I've always wanted to fly a Spitfire when the skies are like that. Maybe I'll get to, once this is over." Cameron glanced at Andy, smiling a little. "You think?"

Andy smiled at the thought; he loved Spitfires. He'd kept five models of them in his room before the outbreak. Probably they were still there. "Yeah," Andy said. "I think so."

Cameron raised the pistol, pointing at the setting sun one more time. Furiously he blinked away tears trying to force their way into his eyes; that was a luxury he'd given up long ago. Quietly, and with surprising calm, the young Marine officer asked the two children, "That's a beautiful sunset, isn't it?" Inside, though, Cameron was hoping Tammy was right. _I hope God _does_ see how it really is… because I don't think I do_.

Two shots rang out.

Exactly two minutes later, the centre of Westminster Bridge exploded and toppled into the river; a flawless, perfectly-controlled demolition.

By the time the moon's pale light shone down on London that night, the streets in front of Parliament stood empty again. The infected snarled in some areas of the city; in others tanks rumbled, and soldiers fired their weapons. But on that night, none of them made any difference. A troop of Royal Marines had simply vanished into the night like ghosts, and the city of London was as it had been, ever since the start of the infection.

Silent. And empty.


End file.
